The Night Of The Storm
by Maryportia
Summary: Best friends & worst enemies become a whole lot more over the course of one blustery autumnal night, and all against a backdrop of secrets & lies. Bad language, bad behaviour, and all the best kinds of badness! M/M slashy smutty fun with a plot that happened all by itself. Johnlock & Mystrade. Enjoy! :)
1. Chapter 1

Dr John Watson climbed out of a cab and into the pouring rain. It was a wild and blustery evening in early November, and the rain had been lashing down for most of the day. He called a quick 'Ta!' to the cabbie and scurried across the road, squinting to stop the water from getting in his eyes. He paused on the step of 221B and rummaged through the pockets of his jeans, pulling out receipts and chewing gum before remembering that he'd put his keys in his jacket. When he got inside, he closed the door to the driving wind and wet, and ran a hand through his soaking hair. Cold water ran down his back and he left squeaky footprints on the tiles as he crossed the lobby and started up the stairs.

Sherlock was sitting by the window as usual, but rather than being slumped against the wall wearing his dressing gown as he'd expected, John noticed that he sat upright and was wearing suit trousers and a white shirt buttoned almost to the top. Sherlock surprised his friend further by actually acknowledging that he had returned. He turned his gaze from the street below and fixed John with a hard stare that made John feel terribly self-conscious.

"Sherlock!" John said, trying for the life of him to keep the uneasy feeling from twisting in his stomach, "Why are you dressed? Are we expecting company?"

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and resting his elbows on this knees - he touched the tips of his fingers together under his chin and shook his head slowly. "Your first _guess_ - because lets face it John, rather than putting some of the deductive skills you've picked up over the time we've known each other to some use, you have perhaps unsurprisingly reverted back to using that highly unproductive and frankly quite annoying _guessing_ that you people cling to so ardently. Indeed, your first guess should have been that we have a case, not a guest."

"We have a case?" John shuffled into the room and nudged the door shut behind him.

"No John we do not have a case."

John shook his head incredulously and started to peel off his dripping jacket. "You just said that I should have guessed that we have a case! Now we _don't_ have a case!" He sighed, exasperated, and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"That is correct, I said that you should have guessed that we have a case because clearly that is the most logical explanation. When have you ever seen me bother to dress for a guest?" Without giving John the chance to answer he continued, "Never. I would not have expected any other man to notice my attire or for it to be the first thing they notice upon entering a room but you, John, are not any other man. Yes, your first guess should have been a case because we have been without one for two months now and the longer time goes by without the police requiring my help, the higher the chance that one will soon be coming our way, and secondly because you know as well as everyone that a case is the only thing that will rouse me . . ."

He paused and in that split second he took in John's drenched clothes and the damp

darkened hair plastered to his forehead. He turned away to look out of the window once again but kept talking. "There is also a case file sitting on the desk by your laptop. Mycroft brought it round earlier. I would have thought that would be the first thing you'd notice rather than what I happen to be wearing but no, despite all the evidence pointing to there being a case, there isn't, because I have already solved it. It was barely a case at all, in point of fact I suspect that Mycroft may have made it up as a poor excuse to come round and stick his nose in my business. I mean seriously, murdered: Ms Bridgette Aviary-Alcazar the mistress secretary with seven bullet wounds to the head, how boring! It reads as if co-written by two children who have not only never met, but also have no concept of tense continuity! And just in case you're wondering, no I did not dress myself for Mycroft's sake any more than I normally do for Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. They being the only people I ever associate with for whom I have any kind of regard, I wonder who in the world you thought might be coming round and _why_ for that matter you automatically made my social plans your first line of questioning. Why does with whom I associate arouse such an interest?"

"Wh . . What?" John visibly cringed before shaking his head and scoffing "Believe me Sherlock what you wear and who you 'associate' with are of no concern to me."

John slunk off into the kitchen, hanging his dripping jacket on the back of a wooden chair and turning on the kettle. As steam began to rise from the only corner of the kitchen which wasn't covered in bits and pieces of Sherlock's experiments, a rack of test tubes here, a horribly serrated ornately decorated cleaver there, John tried to ignore what his brilliantly minded friend had said.

He was used to Sherlock going on his long and usually impossible to follow monologues about cases that really grabbed his interest. Normally John listened and watched his friend working over every precise detail with something like wonder, but today rather than being intrigued and impressed, John found himself feeling as though he'd been turned inside out. Maybe he just wasn't used to the bright light of Sherlock's intellect being shone directly at him; it made him feel strange and warm all over.

He sat down on the other wooden chair at their kitchen table and unfastened his shoes. Taking them off, he slid them back under the chair so they sat under the small electric heater to dry. Maybe it was just the heat coming from the radiator that was making him feel so warm.

John stood up and busied himself clattering about, trying to find two clean cups. The light on the kettle flickered from red to blue and John made the tea realizing that he was also hungry. He was still in his soggy jeans and damp shirt though and food could wait, he just needed to have this cup of tea and a normal conversation with Sherlock to sort out this awkward atmosphere first.

"Takeaway tonight?" he called through to the living room to break the ice.

"Obviously." The reply came from far closer than John expected. He looked up to see Sherlock standing beside the table facing him.

"Oh!" John couldn't hide the surprise in his voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with just the tiniest glimmer of a smile. "Well, we're hardly going to go out to eat in this weather are we?" he stated, "and god knows it would be a terrible thing if either of us were to attempt to cook."

There it was - the smile. John felt immediate relief and let out a small chuckle. Sherlock sat down and accepted the cup, setting it down on the table in front of him to cool a little. John sat down opposite him and took a sip from his own cup, wincing as the scalding tea dripped and splashed his thigh. He rubbed at it through his jeans.

"You shouldn't worry about it," said Sherlock, ignoring John's spill, "She was boring

and shallow and she attempted to insult me by calling me 'Asinime' - you don't want to be with someone that stupid, or rude."

John's jaw dropped a little and he was about to argue that she had only attempted to call him 'asinine' because he had corrected her use of 'irregardless' but he decided against it and sighed.

"Go on then Sherlock," he rolled his eyes but with a half smile, "How did you know?"

Sherlock launched into another fast paced reel explaining in every detail how he had deduced that John and his now 'ex' girlfriend had decided to call things off that very evening. John listened with pained intrigue to his friend and watched with butterflies and increasing anxiety as those eyes fixed momentarily on his face, his collar, his bitten nails, his wet hair. John felt the temperature begin to rise again and sensed with some solace that Sherlock was nearing the end of his explanation.

"And finally . . ." Sherlock paused to take a breath, "you were wearing your nice jacket, because you wanted her to think that you respect her, which you don't, and it was you who finished it not her because you, John Watson, are a gentleman and you gave her your umbrella."

John flushed. Had Sherlock just complimented him? Twice? Wait. What? He had to push this - he went with the easier option.

"You think my jacket is _nice_?" John asked in complete disbelief. Sherlock was prone to wearing his bed sheet and little else around the flat it was true, but when Sherlock actually wanted to look presentable he did. and he did it well. In truth John was slightly envious of Sherlock's ability to look so damned good all the time, so this to him was praise indeed.

"Well . . yes, I mean . . yes it looks nice on you, I mean you look nice in it..." Sherlock frowned and stared down into his tea.

Rain lashed at the living room windows and the wind was whistling through the building. John's mouth had gone dry. The conversation had certainly taken and unexpected turn and he wasn't sure what it all meant but he had to find out. Something about the way Sherlock had suddenly gone quiet seemed to say more than all those words, those hundreds of words he'd spoken just a few moments ago. John coughed lightly and drank another mouthful of tea.

"And uh . . . you think I'm a gentleman?" John cursed the accidental break in his voice; it sounded like he was teasing. Sherlock scowled and maintained eye contact with his cup. Suddenly a clap of thunder rolled overhead startling both of them, then just as Sherlock raised his eyes from his cup and finally looked back at John, the lights went out.

It was only a second or two before the bulbs flickered back to life. John blinked. The clock on the oven timer was flashing zeros and Sherlock was now standing. Something about his posture, his whole person had changed and he stared with a look that John had never seen. The doctor stood, automatically mirroring him. John looked at his friend quickly, trying to decide what had changed. The detective stepped nimbly round the table to stand directly in front of John, his whole demeanour now revealing a confident, cocksure and expectant Sherlock. He was smiling but his eyes remained determinedly serious.

Sherlock was standing so close to him that John was breathing in his smell. He inhaled. Sherlock smelled clean, of something sweet but hard like green apples and soap, and heat radiated from his body. John realised that Sherlock couldn't have been long out of the shower when he'd arrived home. The thought of him naked, wet, and now his proximity . . . Shit, what was going on?

Sherlock's hands were on him, touching him, one on his shoulder and the other holding the back of his neck. The taller man pulled him closer and then leaned down and kissed him. John had no idea how this had happened but he didn't have time to question it now, he needed to kiss Sherlock back. The gentle fingers stroking the hairs on the back of John's neck and the warmth of Sherlock's lips pressing into his and his tongue now, holy fuck his tongue, it was sending tiny shocks of pleasure right through him.

Sherlock's kiss deepened and he pressed his body against John's; his hand slid from his shoulder to rest on his hip. When John responded by gripping the back of Sherlock's shirt in his fists to pull him in closer, the younger man was able to trace his finger over John's hipbone where his shirt had ridden up. John let out a shuddering little breath and totally lost himself in Sherlock. He could feel his friend's cock now hard and straining at the material of his trousers and without even pausing to question any of it, he found he was moving himself up against the other man deliberately, wanting more.

Suddenly, unbearably, Sherlock pulled away from him. John stared wide-eyed at his friend, realising he was breathing hard and that his own erection was painfully pressing against his cold wet jeans.

"You're no gentleman," Sherlock's voice was deep and almost menacing combined with the intense and hungry look in his eyes. John could feel the low vibrations of his voice and when he spoke again John felt it go right through him, "No, You're no gentleman after all Dr Watson," Sherlock grinned suddenly and glanced towards the living room.

"Whoo Whoo!" . . . Mrs Hudson's voice registered in John's muddled mind and her

pointless knocking on the now open door hit him with a stab of dismay. She was already in the flat, having let herself in as usual. Normally this didn't bother either of them but tonight John cursed internally and he shoved Sherlock away from him and hurriedly began to straighten up his clothes. Sherlock had staggered from John's push and now stood resting his hand on the edge of the sink he'd grabbed to stop himself from falling. The two men stared at each other. John's face was scarlet and his pulse was frantic; Sherlock appeared so calm and cool that John wondered for a second if he'd just imagined the whole thing!

"Boys!" Mrs Hudson chortled in a singsong voice, "I'm so glad you're here! I have some rather exciting news." She made her way into the kitchen and a brief expression of horror crossed her face. _She knows_ John thought, just about dying inside, before realising just how ridiculous that was and that the actual reason for her reaction was the pile of dirty dishes that were stacked beside the sink. She shook her head and tried to ignore the rest of the mess in the flat as she continued on with her news.

"It's my cousin's decorator. She says that he left a message for her in code on the underside of the shelves he put up for her but I told her not to be so silly - she's been known to get a bit carried away sometimes. But then the boy was taken off the job apparently for no reason, and replaced with someone else. Anyway I suddenly thought that perhaps there really had been a message, just not for her, she can be rather fanciful at times. Comes from reading too many Mills and Boons. It's ludicrous - I mean the poor man is a third her age!"

She chuckled and looked quite pleased with herself. She grinned but with a hint of

confusion dawning in her eyes as she looked from one man to the other and back again. "What do you think then boys? A case! You've been complaining for ages of having nothing to do and I've found you a case." She brandished a slip of paper and held it out for Sherlock to take.

"A code. What kind of code?" Sherlock's voice, appearance and mannerisms were right back to normal and he and Mrs Hudson moved through to the living room and sat down.

"Just seems like random letters and numbers according to her. There are also brush strokes! In the gloss paint! Apparently he's normally very neat and professional but there are noticeable upwards brush strokes on the stairs, one on the third step and four on the fifth step and so on. It's all quite intriguing don't you think?"

Sherlock pushed himself back into his seat and glanced over to where John stood in the entrance to the kitchen. "Put the kettle on again will you John, we have a guest . . . And a case." His face gave nothing away.

"Ooh yes thank you love," John heard Mrs Hudson chime as he turned and trudged back to the sink to refill the kettle. He left them to talk about the details and he started on the dishes. His mind was like cotton wool. Thoughts were racing but he couldn't get a clear image of what he was even trying to think. What in the world had just happened? Somehow, his best friend, flat mate and the world's only consulting detective had just kissed him. Not just kissed though. John felt his pulse quicken as he replayed the moment as it had happened over again in his mind The feeling in the pit of his stomach, the excitement, the sheer ecstasy of being that close to Sherlock. Where had all that come from?

Okay so maybe he'd been a bit confused of late when it came to Sherlock. He knew he wasn't gay, that he was just having a little bit of a man crush - that can happen right? He'd just assumed that he would get over it soon and had tried to ignore it. He'd been seeing plenty of women, so that proved he wasn't gay. It came to him then that in the time he'd known Sherlock, not one of the women he'd been with had excited him, not in the way that Sherlock's slight pout did when the detective was concentrating. John groaned silently to himself and slumped down, resting his head in his hands. He could sit and try to work it out logically all night long but he knew that he didn't really want to. He wanted to be back with Sherlock, back in Sherlock's gaze, back where he could breath his smell and taste him. John felt his jeans tighten again.

Mrs Hudson appeared in the kitchen and John was awash with shame. Her excited chattering had barely registered with him in his flushed and confused state and he now wondered what she was even doing here at all? The kettle had boiled and he started to dry a cup but then, as if his prayers had been answered, she gave him a quick wave.

"Never mind about the tea my dear, I have to get back and call the old girl now before it gets too late!" She had already turned to leave and he heard her agreeing with Sherlock that she should get back in touch if any further examples of the code were found.

" - as many details as possible and then let us know in the morning."

John heard the door close and this time he made out the sound of the bolt being slid across too.

There was silence. _Shit,_ he thought. _What now?_ Was Sherlock going to come through and pick up where he'd left off? A thrill fired through him. He felt his cheeks redden. He stood up properly and straightened himself out. His heart beat loudly in his ears but there was no sign of Sherlock. After a moment he made his way into the living room. He was nervous now and had no idea what he might find. Sherlock looked up as John stepped towards him. He was sitting on the couch, leaning forward, a frown of concentration etched on his face as he studied the slip of paper.

"John!" he said, as though he was surprised to see him, "I need to borrow your phone." Sherlock slipped the folded paper into his trouser pocket and then glanced up as though questioning why John still standing there.

John's heart sank. This, he had not counted on. Was that it? Were they just going to leave it at that then . . . after what Sherlock had done? Well fine . . . it was probably for the best, he wasn't even gay so it was all just fine. Was what had happened just something to pass the time until they had another case? Something to ease the boredom?

"Right," he replied and unplugged his phone from where he had left it charging on the desk. As he held it out to Sherlock, the dark haired man fixed him with a stare but it was only for a split second. The moment had passed and Sherlock was busy tapping away at the phone. John didn't know what to do with himself. God why was he so stupid? He was behaving like a teenager!

"Shall I order the takeaway?" was all he could think of to say, even though he was so wound up that he wasn't really hungry any more. Sherlock didn't answer for a moment and then frowned again.

"No. . . well yes if you want," he snapped irritably. "Not for me though, I have to think," and then he was back concentrating on the screen in his hand.

"FINE!" John had had enough. "You always do this! I don't know how you've got this far, treating people like this. You said you wanted a takeaway so I offer you takeaway and you just shoot me down. Well I don't care, forget about it. No takeaway. GIT!" He sounded like a petulant child and he knew it but his anger seemed to have exploded from nowhere and it felt good to storm back through to the kitchen. He would have liked to storm all the way out of the flat and far away where he didn't have to think about Sherlock at all but the weather was still raging outside. The sound of the distant thunder claps had seemed to be dying down, but now a flash of lightening lit up the whole room for a second and a car alarm went off somewhere down the street.

John stood confused, hurt and sulking at the sink. He ran some more hot water and tried to distract himself with the piles of dirty dishes, and soon enough he was back in control. He relaxed a little and even thought a bit about the case. It seemed ludicrous that anyone would go to such extreme lengths to pass on a message. In a world so crammed with information it was possible to see other meanings and messages everywhere. Why would anyone communicate through jumbled letters on the underside of shelves, or brush strokes in the skirting board? Sherlock seemed to have taken it seriously though so maybe there was more to it than John could see.

A light cough brought John's attention back to the room . . . Sherlock was standing right behind him. John had no idea how long he had been there but now his presence was alarmingly obvious. Sherlock's habit of padding around the flat barefoot made it impossible to hear him moving around sometimes. John wanted to turn around but he was still a little indignant so he stubbornly kept scrubbing at the tea stained cup he held in his hand. Then John's world flipped upside down, sparks shot down his spine - Sherlock was kissing the back of his neck lightly and the warm breath on his sensitive skin gave John goosebumps.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John demanded, surprising himself with his harsh tone.

"I'm kissing your neck," Sherlock's matter of fact answer wound John up even more. The man was just playing with him, teasing him.

The detective slid his arms around John from behind and continued pressing his lips to his skin, now tickling the part just behind his ear. It was all John could do not to whip around and jump on Sherlock right there on the kitchen floor. He managed just a grunt and kept scrubbing the tea cup.

"Problem?" asked Sherlock, "I could have sworn you were enjoying this earlier." John could tell from the sound of his voice that he was smirking. "I thought this was what you normal people liked . . ." he murmured as he started slowly teasing John's ear with his teeth, nipping gently.

"If you're so different from us _normal_ people then why are you doing it? Are you telling me you're not enjoying this? That you're doing this for _my_ benefit? Is this another experiment?" John didn't sound angry any more but his body was hard and tense under Sherlock's hands which rested on his friend's toned ex army stomach.

"Would it make a difference?" Sherlock's smirk had widened into a grin, "Would you want me to stop?" He bit down on John's shoulder lightly and John finally responded with a low shudder. His whole body erupted with goosebumps and he let his head fall back giving Sherlock access to his throat.

"Tell me to stop right now John and I will . . ."

"No . . . Sherlock," was all John could manage to get out after a long moment.

"I don't do things I don't want to do John," was the tall man's matter of fact reply before his hand slid down to John's cock and he began slowly palming him through his jeans.

John heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat as he felt just how turned on he was. The hand slid down further and he felt the heat of Sherlock's palm on his balls through his cold wet jeans and he let his head rest back on the tall man's shoulder, breathing him in once again. Sherlock's other hand was gripping his short sandy hair and he gently turned his head so their mouths were only centimetres apart. John felt Sherlock's hot breath on his lips and couldn't stop himself; he craned his neck upwards to meet Sherlock's mouth with his own and kissed him hungrily.

Suddenly with a low moan from Sherlock, John felt himself pushed forward and he was pinned against the counter by Sherlock's hips. There was no mistaking the hardness pressing against his arse as anything other than what it was. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had a huge fucking hard on and it was for him. _Fuck_. His hands automatically went down to where Sherlock had a hold of his cock and started guiding his hand, making him move faster. John let out a whimper.

"Not yet!" Sherlock's voice was intense but controlled, and his actions made John sure that he wasn't going to allow this to be over quickly. "With me." Sherlock straightened and lead John through to the living room. He was heading for his bedroom when he paused, whipped round and shoved John hard up against the living room wall.

"Aah!" John cried out, his face pressed against the old fashioned brown patterned wallpaper. Sherlock's hips were grinding into his arse again and John pushed back in encouragement, his hands up against the wall for balance. He felt Sherlock tighten his grip on his shoulder as he held John where he was and his other hand squeezed John's arse having landed there with a swift stinging smack.

John bit down on his lip to stifle a yelp and brought his arm up to create a cushion between his face and the wall. There was no logical thought process any more, all John could think about was a desperate need to be as close to Sherlock as possible. It was like he had been starving this whole time they'd lived together and now suddenly, inexplicably was allowed to eat. He wasn't about to question it. Sherlock's breathing had become ragged as he pawed and played with his backside.

All of a sudden Sherlock's hand was snaking its way round to John's front again, he felt a quick but urgent kiss on the back of his neck as Sherlock began to unfasten his belt buckle. The detective unzipped John's jeans and found his way inside. Sherlock let out a gasp as his hand wrapped around John's rock hard erection. The doctor could barely breath as Sherlock pulled at his jeans and boxers enough to pull him out and began to stroke him slowly, kissing and biting him too. Sherlock let go, infuriatingly leaving John's hard cock straining for him. The detective had a hold of his flatmate's hips and motioned for John to turn around. When he did, Sherlock dropped to his knees and immediately had the head of John's cock in his mouth sucking and lapping hungrily at his already leaking tip.

"Holy . . Fuck . .. Sherlock!" John hissed under his breath as Sherlock managed to work all of him into his mouth and started massaging the underside of his cock with lavish sweeps of his tongue. It was more than John could take right then and he found his fingers tangled in the kneeling man's hair and he bucked his hip, urgently fucking Sherlock's mouth and letting out a long low "Aaaaaaaah Fuck!"

". . . .. . . ._MH_ . .." was all he made out from the man at his feet before Sherlock sucked his cock all the way to the tip and let it pop out of his mouth with a ragged gasp for air. John thought he was going to stand up and walk out. With horror he realized that he might have been too rough, taken this too far, but Sherlock just looked up at him gave a devilish grin. His hands tugged at John's jeans, pulling them further down his thighs and he urgently nudged at his friend's knees, pushing John's legs as far apart as they would go with his trousers still clinging to him half way down his thighs.

The detective's left hand was slowly massaging John's cock and as John stared down into his brilliant, dark rimmed, pale blue eyes, Sherlock leaned in and without breaking eye contact, brought his warm lips to the base of the doctor's penis, his hot wet tongue slowly exploring first one testicle and then the other forcing a frustrated growl from the doctor's throat. Then Sherlock tilted his head back and John felt his friend take both of them into his mouth and gently begin to suck.

John's legs felt weak and he let out a whimper and closed his eyes. Before the doctor could regain his composure enough even to close his mouth, he felt Sherlock's right hand making its way up over his torso to his mouth where he was presented with the kneeling man's index and middle fingers. John couldn't let himself think too much about where this was going, if he did he knew he would freak out and run, or cum right there. He closed his eyes and took the detective's two digits into his mouth and swirled his tongue around them. He had barely tasted them when Sherlock pulled his fingers away, slick with saliva and before John could acknowledge his own apprehension, Sherlock had pushed his right hand between the doctor's legs and found his opening.

"Oh God . . ." John's fists clenched as his whole body tensed up. He couldn't open his eyes, not while he knew the detective had his gaze fixed on him. Sherlock had sat back slightly and looked up when he'd heard John's last exclamation but his hands hadn't stopped. John felt pressure for a moment at his tense tight hole and then Sherlock had pushed up inside him. He threw his head back and tried to relax but his breath caught in his throat as he felt the detective wriggle his finger further into him, up to the knuckle.

John had had girlfriends do this for him before, but it wasn't like this. They had acted like they were doing him a huge favour, but Sherlock didn't even seem to care, he was doing this because he wanted to. He curled his finger inside of the doctor and began to slowly pull out but not all the way. John let out a shuddering groan as he felt the dark haired man stretch him open and then push his knuckle back inside, this time to be joined by Sherlock's other slicked finger.

The detective took his friend's strangled mew as his cue and started vigorously finger

fucking him where he stood. John's knees almost buckled as he felt Sherlock suck his cock back into his mouth. Sherlock reached up and pressed his other hand into the doctor's chest to hold him upright. John was completely at his mercy. He was too far gone to reason any more.

Images of Sherlock raced through his mind. This was his Sherlock, his detective and he was on his knees pleasuring John in ways he'd only barely allowed himself to fantasize about. John had often wondered about the taller man's sex life and had come to assume that he was asexual, that he just wasn't interested in men or women. He'd even said that he considered himself to be 'married to his work'.

But now that John knew otherwise, the proof was right in front of him greedily trying to swallow his dick, John found himself picturing Sherlock in just about every sexual scenario he could imagine. Images flashed in his mind as he ran a hand once again through the thick black curls at the back of Sherlock's head. The detective had obviously done this before, there was no way he could be making John's head spin and his heart race like this if he hadn't. But when and with whom? He pictured Sherlock kneeling in front of some other guy, of someone else pleasuring Sherlock like he was being pleasured now, of Sherlock fucking someone, and being fucked.

John stared down at his friend and suddenly let out a cry as the detective curled his fingers and stroked the sweet spot inside him. He felt heat pooling in his stomach and tried to stop himself moaning aloud again. He bit his lip and realized that he couldn't take it any more. He couldn't let himself come yet, not in the detective's mouth, could he? _Sherlock might swallow._ As he thought this he arched his back and groaned like some kind of an animal. No - he wanted to wait, to make Sherlock feel exactly what he was feeling now. He wanted to make the other man buck and moan and grind into him, to make him cry out and beg for John to fuck him.

John used every ounce of his willpower and concentration to force his body to move. He took hold of the hand that Sherlock was resting on his chest and squeezed.

" . . .Wait, Sherlock, . . . Stop . . ."

The dark haired man at his feet looked up with the most adorably confused expression on his face. He was flushed and John could see in the light of the living room lamps and from the way he was kneeling, crotch thrust forward, that he was rock hard. Sherlock let his hands drop to his sides, glancing down then back up to meet John's gaze. He raised an eyebrow sceptically at his flatmate and the suddenly empty feeling in John, combined with the serious yet coy expression on Sherlock's face, sent shudders through him and his throbbing cock twitched achingly. Without giving Sherlock a chance to say anything, John pulled him to his feet, kissed his hot wet mouth and was marching him into the bedroom. He was half tripping over his jeans and Sherlock was having to hold him upright as they staggering and fumbled their way, bumping into the door frame of Sherlock's bedroom and clinging to one another for support.

John didn't have time to try and decipher what the grin spread across Sherlock's face meant because he had to get him out of those clothes. He started to unbutton the shirt that had started this whole thing, but he was in too much of a hurry and a button or two pinged off as he tore at the fabric. He was aware of the detective staring at him, analysing him, but he didn't feel awkward about it any more. That brilliant mind giving him all its attention was making him shiver with excitement. Sherlock's hands were on him again and his fingers moved deftly and precisely unbuttoning John's own shirt expertly with no loss of time or buttons. Sherlock peeled John's jeans and underwear off completely. His socks came off amid the frenzied tugging at his ankles and then there he was, totally naked and panting, standing in front of his beautiful friend feeling totally exposed but not even slightly ashamed any more.

He took hold of Sherlock by the belt loops and pulled him close. The detective's chest was milky white and although he was skinny as a rake, he was well toned and John could make out the slight definition of stomach muscles below his ribs. John let his fingers trace a line across Sherlock's stomach along where his trousers sat. He touched the detective's hip bones and savoured the feel of his soft skin. Sherlock was kissing him again, urgently this time and letting out an impossibly deep and reverberating groan. Could Sherlock really be so sensitive to his now playfully light and feathery touches? Apparently so. Without breaking the kiss, John unfastened the taller man's belt, and let his trousers drop to the floor exposing Sherlock's long legs and the fact that he wasn't wearing underwear at all.

John's hand went to Sherlock's cock and he'd barely wrapped his fingers around it when Sherlock let out a starved growl and bucked into his hand. John couldn't suppress the smile that spread across his lips as his friend made plain his need for more. John was in control now, though when the tables had turned he couldn't say. He teased Sherlock's cock, moving his hand gently and slowly over him. The agonized whimper that escaped his detective was like music to John, it went straight to his groin and tingled there. John's breathing came quickly at the sounds his friend was making. He had never thought these needful cries could physically come from the great Sherlock Holmes but they were doing unmentionable things to his imagination.

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and roughly pushed him backwards onto the bed. Sherlock fell with a gasp and his light frame bounced slightly as he made contact with the sheets. John was on him in an instant, kissing and biting at Sherlock's neck and leaving little red marks against his pale smooth skin. The doctor let his hands roam over his friend's body as he straddled the detective, staring down at the man stretched out beneath him. Sherlock arched his back and tried to stifle a long loud moan as John's fingers brushed across his nipple. He tried to prop himself up on his elbow and reached forward to touch John's straining cock but John was having non of that, he was enjoying watching Sherlock squirm beneath him and the look of utter need and frustration on his face far too much.

He took Sherlock by the wrists and pinned the man's arms above his head, sliding their bodies together and lowering himself into a deeply passionate kiss. He laced his fingers through Sherlock's, squeezing their sweaty palms together. Their bodies moved rhythmically against eachother, sending little jolts of pure pleasure through them both. The doctor leaned down, eyes closed and rested his head beside Sherlock's, his nose buried in the taller man's hair taking in his scent. When he looked at Sherlock again he was panting heavily, eyes wide with a slight frown. What he said next was all it took to push Doctor Watson over into a whole new realm of lustful need.

"Fuck me . . . . John, please, I need to feel you . . . !"

Sherlock wriggled free of John's grasp and crawled up towards the head of the bed, reaching into his bedside drawer and bringing out a condom and a small bottle. John didn't need to be told what it was. He was going to fuck Sherlock senseless, there was no way he was going to be able to stop himself. Hearing Sherlock say it out loud, asking him to, pleading with him, it was incredible. John crawled towards his detective, he rolled the condom on quickly and taking the bottle, popped the cap open. He was shaking slightly with anticipation and yes, alright, he was a bit nervous to be doing something so exciting and new. Sherlock rolled onto his front and took hold of the metal bars of the headboard and as John knelt between his legs, the detective pushed his hips upwards, inhaling sharply as John's now slick fingers entered him.

John wasn't sure if he should be taking this more slowly . . . Sherlock had been gentle with him but he was working under the impression that Sherlock was used to this and would perhaps be frustrated or, heaven forbid, 'bored,' if John went too slowly. He wanted to please his friend badly and felt a deep-seated longing to see Sherlock lose himself completely.

Sherlock buried his face in his pillow to muffle his loud moans and John revelled in the feeling of Sherlock's muscles gripping his fingers and spasming as John discovered his sweet spot. John reached for the lube and without removing his busy fingers, he rotated his hand and squeezed a liberal amount of the clear liquid onto his upturned palm. He scooped up the wetness and covered his own erection and gave himself a firm squeeze for good measure. Sherlock raised his head, obviously realising what John was doing and when he met John's gaze over his shoulder, the look on his face was enough, he needn't have said what he said next.

"Please . . John. Now . . I can take it . . " the detective's voice was deeper than usual and thick with need. John already had his cock in his hand and he wasted no time in drawing his fingers out and positioning the head of his thick member at Sherlock's hot wet hole. He placed a hand on Sherlock's back and felt his friend take a sharp breath in. The doctor took this as his cue and pushed into him, feeling the other man shudder.

Sherlock let out a loud moan, no longer bothering to try and hide it, and John didn't know what pleased him more, the fact that Sherlock was crying out in pleasure because of him, or the feeling of being balls deep in this brilliant man and feeling the intense heat and pressure around his throbbing cock. He lost himself, thrusting into Sherlock again and again, grinding himself into his friend and moaning with each gasp and cry from the detective. John saw the other man reposition his hands, letting go of the headboard and giving himself leverage to push backwards. John took hold of Sherlock's hip with one hand and leaned in resting his other hand on the hot damp skin of the detective's back. Sherlock responded with a low growl and pushed his hips upwards. The doctor met him hard and gripped the younger man's hip as he fucked him.

Sherlock seemed to find the right angle for John to reach his prostate because he stopped squirming around and tensed before undulating with renewed vigour. The detective drove himself back, fucking himself on John's cock as best he could, eyes screwed tightly shut and he let out a long unashamed groan. John picked up his pace, angling deliberately for that bundle of nerves. He reached round to stroke Sherlock's leaking prick in time with his thrusts and heard his friend whine deep in his chest.

Sherlock's moans grew louder as John thrust into him faster and soon he had pushed himself up onto all fours and was throwing himself back with each grunt and cry from the doctor. John's hand found the detective's shoulder and he squeezed. Sherlock brought his hand up and grabbed the doctor's squeezing him back.

" . . . Ah, I'm going to . . . John I'm going to . . ." Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, he just let out another long low moan as John drilled into him faster. John felt the heat pooling in his stomach and still managing to maintain their rhythm, pulled the detective up so they were kneeling together. Sherlock balanced himself, reaching one long arm back to hold onto John's thigh and let go of John's hand to push aside his sweat soaked hair. John wrapped his free arm around his detective, holding him tightly in a desperate embrace and felt himself start to tip over the edge. He clawed at Sherlock's chest and when he felt his friend tense and shudder, moaning out John's name, and spilling over his hand, John came with him. He slowed his pace right down, letting Sherlock's contracting muscles take him all the way over.

They came together, clinging to each other, breathing so hard and moaning out so that neither one of them knew which sounds were coming from themselves or each other. They hung there, kneeling together, bodies pressed closely. John couldn't tell which of them moved first but they both seemed to disentangle together and both fell to the bed, still reeling and panting raggedly.

"Fuck . . ." John breathed and felt Sherlock settle beside him, his long limbs wrapping

around the doctor to pull him into a tight embrace. Bringing his knees up to curl in about John's backside, they lay together in a perfectly fitting spoon. They stayed there like that for a while with John's mind blissfully blank, feeling Sherlock's now calm and even breath tickling the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Emulsion!" said Sherlock, "If this decorator was suing an inappropriate medium for the priming coat, then the unexplained marks we're looking at might just have been caused by his sloppy application accentuated by a oil based gloss finish. Doesn't explain the code though . . we'll have to try a few experiments tomorrow. Do you think Mrs Hudson has any paint left from when she had her bathroom done? She probably does - never throws anything out - otherwise you'll have to go out and buy some." Sherlock's sudden outburst shouldn't have come as a surprise to John, as he was used to his flatmate changing the topic mid sentence but this was beyond ridiculous!

He snorted with laughter and twisted round to look at his friend incredulously. "Are you fucking serious Sherlock?"

The man's expression was expectant and engrossed and adorable. "Well . . . yes . . ." he looked annoyed at the doctor's subsequent splutter of laughter and was about to speak again when John closed the distance between them with a gentle kiss. Sherlock looked surprised and John managed to stop himself from chuckling at him again.

"Oh God Sherlock, you weren't thinking about that stupid case the whole time were you?" he grinned at his friend.

"No!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, now realizing why John was feigning offence, but there was colour spreading across his cheeks. "No, of course not, don't be ridiculous." He regained a small amount of composure and John raised an eyebrow. "Don't be offended it's just I was so wound up and tense before and I couldn't think properly and now . . well now, with a clear head it's . . ." he scowled, "I'm stupid, stupid!"

"Don't beat yourself up Sherlock, I get it, I'm just glad I could be of assistance." John

smiled at the detective again. The other man smiled back and pulled John round to hold him close.

"Tea?"

John was momentarily confused, was Sherlock requesting or offering? The taller man stood up on the bed, shook out the tangled bed sheet and wrapped it around himself, hopping gracefully down and padding through to the kitchen where John could hear him rummaging through the mess and filling the kettle.

"Ta!" John called through after him, stretching himself out on Sherlock's bed and settling back comfortably against the pillows. He could get used to this, he thought. Even if all that changed was that he'd found a new way to help Sherlock solve his cases, no matter how ridiculous, he would be happy. Heck, even if they went straight back to being flatmates who could barely even he called friends, he could be happy after tonight. As Sherlock shuffled back into the room, two steaming cups held awkwardly close to his chest as he struggled to hold his sheet in place, John knew that no matter what happened, this evening would stay with him forever.


	2. Chapter 2 - The British Government

**Chapter Two - The British Government**

John took both cups from Sherlock and the taller man crawled back into bed beside him. The detective settled against the headboard, ankles crossed, and took his tea back from John with an adorable yawn. John had just taken his first sip of tea when their cosy bubble of newly discovered something-more-than-friendship was burst, unsurprisingly, by Mycroft Holmes. The text alert caused both men to groan in unison.

"Ignore it," Sherlock glanced at his phone where it sat on his bedside table, irritation easy to read in his tone and the scowl that flashed over his beautiful face. John didn't need to be told twice. He'd learned not to get involved when it came to the elder Holmes brother. Sherlock had once described him as the most dangerous man John had ever met and although he had never actually caused John any harm - despite his constant insistence on making each of their meetings as intimidating as possible - John didn't doubt that it was true. That the power held by the man he'd heard described as 'the British government' was far more dangerous than he could comprehend. Mycroft Holmes himself had related his and Sherlock's relationship to him on their first meeting as somewhat difficult, and had even gone so far as to call himself Sherlock's arch enemy. Ridiculous - but not totally inaccurate.

John had a complicated enough relationship with the detective himself, possibly even more so after the events of this evening. He had a hard enough time getting his head around that, without pointlessly involving himself in their childish sibling rivalry, if it could even be explained in such simple terms.

They slouched beside each other in Sherlock's bed, but any chance they'd previously had of enjoying the rest of the night in each other's company had already been besmirched before the second text alert sounded. This time it was John's phone buzzing away in the living room. As much as it pained John to accept that their night might not end with Sherlock falling asleep, long limbs wrapped about him in perfectly restful peace, he knew that there was no way either of them could resist their curiosity for long.

"Might be important . . ." John muttered, sipping his tea.

"_Important . ." _Sherlock mocked, more in imitation of Mycroft than of John. "I seriously doubt it, Mycroft claimed today's case was '_important_' . . . he's played that card already today and I'm not going to fall for it twice. He can learn his lesson the hard way if he wants. Let him stew." The detective brought his own cup to his lips but despite John's not so sly sideways glances, he couldn't bring himself to drink. He was thinking.

Before Sherlock could stop himself he'd made a grab for his phone, almost sloshing tea all over them both. John grinned, enjoying Sherlock's lack of control and zero ability to stop himself from delving into yet another mystery. Sherlock's eyes flashed briefly over the screen and then he was tapping at the keys, faster and faster until with a stiff jerk of the head, he stopped. John waited for the detective to tell him what the text had said but he just sat there tense, brow furrowed in concentration. John peered sideways up at his friend's face and nudged him gently with his elbow.

"Something's wrong? What is it?" the doctor didn't want to make his friend irritable as he sometimes was when John asked too many questions. But something about the way Sherlock had reacted had him spooked. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the phone but spoke quietly, obviously still deep in thought.

"Not only does Mycroft not text when he can phone, but he doesn't text full stop, he has people who do that for him. He's always to the point and doesn't waste time with sentiment and frivolities at least not when relating messages to his staff to distribute accordingly - so why on this occasion would I be receiving a text from my brother incorporating the phrase - My dear little brother. It's something he would say, to be certain, but would he have one of his staff actually type out those particular words?"

His thumb tapped the backspace button where he'd begun to type a reply, clearing the text and staring once again at the suspicious message. John sat up properly and swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor. He hurried into the living room remembering only when he was on his way back, phone in hand, that he was stark bollock naked. He tried not to look too embarrassed as he slipped back under the covers beside Sherlock. The taller man stared but the expression on his face was completely distracted. He took the phone before John had the chance to look at it himself, and read the message out loud.

"Please have my brother get in touch as soon as possible. This is a matter of the utmost importance. - M Holmes"

"_M Holmes!_" Both men exclaimed in unison. This was not the usual manner of Mycroft's texts at all. They stared at each other for the briefest of moments in silence before the whole world seemed to burst into a whirl of sound and movement. Both phones rang at the same time, numbers withheld, and Sherlock was up on his feet again, sheet clad and moving like a white blur across the room and out into the hallway.

"Don't answer!" he called over his shoulder as he whirled away. John could hear banging coming from downstairs. Someone was at the front door. Following closely behind Sherlock as he entered the living room, John made a dash for the basket of clean laundry sitting beside the couch where he'd left it the day before, and rummaged through the neatly ironed and folded clothes until he found a fresh pair of pants and jeans. He had on his underwear, and had one leg into his favourite denims when he heard Mrs Hudson's shrill voice as she answered the incessant barrage at the door. She made not too delicate a point of stating the time at the top of her lungs. The door was slammed and they heard more shouting as the intruder barrelled up the stairs past Mrs Hudson's vain protests. John lost his balance trying to get his left leg into the other leg of his trousers and fell face first onto the floor. Sherlock sailed past, sheet billowing behind him, John lay in a crumpled heap but Sherlock barely seemed to notice him. He stopped and stared at the closed and locked entrance to their flat as the handle rattled. More banging followed, shaking the door on its hinges. John had picked himself up, heart racing, and had just managed to pull up and fasten his jeans when Sherlock leaped across the room and flung the door open wide.

Mycroft Holmes stood leaning nonchalantly against the wall in the dingy hallway, one hand resting on the curved handle of his umbrella and the other casually in his coat pocket. One foot was tucked behind the other, the toe of his black polished leather shoe daintily touching the scuffed floorboards on which he stood.

"Evening Gentlemen," he crooned with a stiff smile as he straightened and stepped toward them. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the mess, the case file, the laundry, the tea cups, his brother, the sheet, the glance at the doctor, the doctor's blush, the doctor's bare feet and chest, his stomach and shoulders and finally the living room windows. He crossed the room in a few strides, moving faster than John had thought it possible with such a composed demeanour. He peered through the curtain and stepped back, turning once again to face the two men.

"Just WHAT in the BLAZES is this all about?" Mrs Hudson hurried up the stairs and ploughed into the room with fists clenched.

"I do apologize, for interrupting your evening," Mycroft said calmly with only the slightest of nods towards the doctor and the detective, "and to you especially Mrs Hudson, for my uncivilized entrance. I do hope I didn't give you too much of a fright."

"You scared the living daylights out of me Mycroft Holmes!" her tone was angry but her face had softened already and it was obvious to all three men that she had been engulfed by the all-consuming charm that came so easily to the tall and elegant brothers. "What in the world has gotten into you?"

"Nothing to worry about I assure you, just a little problem that I'm sure will be rectified presently." A loud shot was heard from somewhere down the street and John stared at Mycroft in horror.

"No, Mycroft, no riddles, just tell us what the hell is going on? What's with the weird messages? And what is going on outside?" John fixed the politician with a hard stare but Mycroft ignored him completely and turned his attention to Sherlock. The detective had been quietly engrossed in his phone from the moment he'd opened the door and John wasn't sure if this was reassuring or if he should be even more anxious.

"The case wasn't quite interesting enough to grab your attention then I see," Mycroft said with a tiny hint of a smile. Sherlock's head snapped up from the phone in his hand, "or perhaps you were just a little too easily distracted . . . ?" Mycroft eyed John reproachfully before stepping calmly towards his brother and leaning in closely, breathing something into Sherlock's ear that John couldn't make out.

The detective's eyes widened a fraction and he almost dropped his sheet in his hurry to grab at the case file on the desk. Mycroft got there first, "I don't think so, it's a little late for that now anyway, don't you think?"

"That's not FAIR!" Sherlock growled, making a swipe for the file held high above his brother's head. Mycroft held him back with his other arm and Sherlock was helpless unless he chose to forgo his modesty entirely. "It's your fault!" he spat, "You oughtn't to have made the thing so damned boring!"

"That was the point, dear brother." Mycroft sounded disinterested, "Anything pertaining to an actual case and you might have wasted precious time on some wild goose chase. I never for one moment thought you would actually believe I had brought you a secretarial homicide. For pity's sake Sherlock - is your opinion of me really so low?" He smirked and in doing so enraged his younger brother to the point where Sherlock had forgotten his sheet altogether and was now grabbing wildly for the file and before Mrs Hudson could avert her eyes, they had fallen onto the couch and Sherlock's naked thighs had straddled Mycroft and he was able to snatch the now slightly crumpled pages away from his brother's vice like grip.

"Merciful Heavens!" Mrs Hudson breathed as she turned to make her way slowly from the room and began the dark descent back down to her flat on the ground floor, "At my age I just don't . ." A silence fell over the three men as Mrs Hudson's footsteps receded.

Sherlock leafed through the document, his eyes darting from each page to the next at

lightening speed. He gritted his teeth.

"Would you mind, Sherlock?" Mycroft shifted uncomfortably beneath his brother and

Sherlock lifted himself to a standing position without taking his eyes from the file. Mycroft stood and smoothed down his clothes with a neatly manicured hand and stepped gingerly away from the detective. John coughed lightly hoping that one of them might remember that he was there and perhaps shed some light on what the hell was going on?

Sherlock finished reading and dropped the file into the fireplace where the edges began to brown and curl. The smell of melting plastic spread across the room from the binding clip that the detective had neglected to remove before disposing of it. Recoiling from the pungent invasion, John turned and reached to open the window but was stopped by Mycroft's hand on his shoulder.

"Not a good idea Doctor, best stay out of sight for now." Mycroft's voice had deepened considerably and John dropped his arm to his side and did what the other man said. Mycroft's dark eyes said all, and John felt a shiver of cold fear in his gut.

Suddenly Sherlock was elbowing his way between them and protectively positioning himself between them and the window.

"Yes," he said simply, eyes wide and his mouth set in a grim line. "I'm sorry . . . I

didn't . . . I wasn't . . . I'm sorry." Sherlock looked so pathetic and regretful that John wanted to wrap him in his arms and assure him that it would all be okay.

"Dear me," Mycroft tutted patronizingly, "no need to be sentimental. It will all be over with soon enough and I'll be out of your hair. I just need to stay here for an hour or so if neither of you mind too much. And please Sherlock would you mind putting some clothes on? You really couldn't make this situation any more uncomfortable if you tried."

Sherlock reddened slightly and disappeared into his bedroom, banging the door closed behind him. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the buzzer at the front door. Both men froze as the sound of Mrs Hudson muttering to herself carried up the stairs as she headed off to answer it.

"STOP!" John yelled and bolted for the door. He flew down to the ground floor hallway, and caught Mrs Hudson just before her hand reached the latch. "Wait!" he said panting, taking her arm and pulling her back towards her doorway. "Just wait." He signalled for her to stay put just out of sight of the front door and tried to calm his racing heart. The buzzer sounded again and then someone was opening the letterbox and peering through.

"John?" the muffled voice said through the small opening, "John is that you? What the hell is going on?" It was Lestrade. John hauled the front door open and before the D.I. could say another word the doctor had grabbed him by the shoulder and had pulled him inside, slamming the door shut. "WHAT is going on?" Lestrade glowered at John, as he straightened his coat and reached for his police radio, "Is everyone alright?"

John brought his hand up to his face and rubbing his jaw incredulously, shook his head. "I don't have the foggiest Greg, seriously I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to find out!" John turned and marched back up the stairs with Lestrade close behind, leaving Mrs Hudson staring after them.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Lestrade asked, "You're the one who's been sending me these strange texts!"

John stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face the inspector. "What texts?"

As Lestrade came up the stairs towards him John remembered that he was still shirtless and flushed, but the mystery of the whole situation was more important right now.

"Don't be a git John! There was the crazy one about paint! I assumed you were high on fumes! And then you get all serious and demand I show up with the bloody cavalry!" He pointed back down towards the front door. "I called to find out what the problem was but you don't answer so what was I supposed to think? And what exactly am I supposed to tell them outside?" Just as he said this his radio crackled to life and then a female voice, likely Donovan's, asked,

"What's the situation Sir? We're stationed up on road a little, do you need back up? Over."

"Negative. Stand by," Lestrade spoke quickly and passing through the open door to the flat, he eyed the two men standing before him with an exasperated nod. Sherlock had dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing earlier, despite the few missing buttons.

"Sherlock . . ." John realised, "Sherlock sent the texts."

Lestrade nodded, it all made perfect sense now, at least as much sense as it ever did. "Right!" he said, pointing an accusing finger first at Sherlock, then at Mycroft and then back to Sherlock, "Which of you two is going to explain to me what I'm doing here?"

Mycroft couldn't hide the slight curl at the corner of his mouth as he turned to face his brother and raised an eyebrow. "Scotland Yard? What were you thinking? Why not just call in the army for all the good that would do!" He scoffed and John wanted to punch him and knock him down but he wasn't sure why. He was going to shout at him as a sort of compromise but while he was trying to figure out what to say Sherlock got in there first.

"Shut up Mycroft, you're hardly in a position to be making demands, beggars can't be choosers. I'm trying to think!" He reached down into the laundry basket at his feet and thrust a random shirt up at John without making eye contact. John felt himself blush as he pulled the shirt on but thankfully nobody noticed, they were too engrossed as the detective had drawn himself back up to his full height, turned his attention to Lestrade and had begun to explain.

"There's going to be an assassination attempt at 07:00 hours, as a government car drives from Westminster Bridge, along Birdcage Walk towards the palace. There will be three passengers in the car, only two will be alive by the time the car reaches Buckingham Gate. It's supposed to be a message, but it's been orchestrated by someone inside. Someone with a vendetta, the choice of target isn't random. It's personal. Attempting an assassination in such a wide open space with such high security? You can guarantee the person responsible is a power mad egotist, and close to the target. However, due to a slip up, this person has become suspicious that the plan has been discovered and may change the place and time as soon as they get more information. Therefore we can't do anything to make them think we know until we've got more information ourselves. It could be disastrous - they could choose a new target, and we'd have no hope of finding them."

Sherlock stopped to breath quickly and was about to continue when Lestrade butted in,

"How do you know all this? Who's the target?" he glanced at his watch "It's half nine

NOW! How are we supposed to stop them by seven in the bloody morning? And how are we supposed to stop them if you're telling us we can't actually do anything to draw attention to ourselves? If it's an inside job then they're bound to have people at the yard as well . . ." he trailed off and looked at Sherlock, realisation dawning slowly. "Sherlock just tell me straight, why the hell did you two drag me here and how did you find out about all this?" The detective scowled and ran a hand through his dark curls. He looked to Mycroft who met his gaze with a little pout.

"Mycroft gave me a file this afternoon," he stated simply. The detective inspector shrugged his shoulders impatiently waiting for the younger Holmes brother to continue.

Mycroft coughed lightly.

"And I would have been in touch sooner," Sherlock explained "except that the file was in code and I didn't realise until now, I was . . . ."

" . . . . Busy." Mycroft finished smoothly. "Anyway, you're perfectly right inspector – there really is nothing you can do and I'm sure you have far more important work to be getting on with and there are more than a few people at _the yard_ who are more than aware of the situation. So if you want to keep your job, your reputation, and particularly your life, it would be advisable for you to keep this little problem quiet." He crossed his arms and glowered at the D.I. coldly.

"Don't you go anywhere!" Sherlock had his hand on Lestrade's shoulder and had regained some of his obnoxiously commanding air. "I need you to talk to your people, tell them that it was a false alarm, that I've relapsed and that I sent that text while inebriated. That ought to entertain them enough to distract them from the obvious. Dismiss them, apologize and say you're staying to help John sort me out."

Lestrade swung around and angrily jabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest. He looked as if he was going to argue for a moment but seeing those pale blue, deadly serious eyes locked on his he dropped his gaze and nodded. "They're not going to believe that shit Sherlock, they'd expect me to be angry so there's no way they'll just accept that I'm staying to help when I have a whole week's worth of paperwork sitting on my desk and a shift to finish!"

"Ha! Don't kid yourself inspector. Your shift finished two hours ago, the only reason you're still working is that you can't go home because your wife has kicked you out again. If any of them have two brain cells to rub together then it's as obvious to them as it is to me. They'll _assume_ that you're telling the truth and that you're helping John deal with me in the hopes of being offered a sofa to sleep on so you don't have to sleep in your car for the second night in a row! No-one stays two hours after a shift to do 'paperwork' if they can possibly help it." Lestrade turned slowly to face John, eyes burning, but John shook his head emphatically. Sherlock must have read it in the crumpled clothes or the bags under his eyes. The bastard was right of course. "Oh and don't worry, they'll believe it, I'll make sure of that." Sherlock shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels, nodding in encouragement as the D.I. lifted his radio and with an uneasy frown began to speak.

"Unit 131, this is Lestrade."

"Lestrade, Go ahead. What's the situation Sir?"

"False alarm. Stand down. . . ." As the D.I. began to relay the story Sherlock had planned out for him, the consulting detective had begun to shake. John could see it in his hands as he lifted them to grab at his dark curls and his eyes darted around the room wildly. John took a tentative step forward and was about to reach out to calm his friend when Sherlock started jumping from one foot to the other and shouting.

"FUCK THE POLICE!" Sherlock laughed like a madman. As John watched transfixed, the D.I., struggling to be heard over the racket, shouted into the radio angrily and he had to shove Sherlock away when he tried to grab the radio from his hand, almost dropping it.

"Sir, could you repeat that, there seems to be some interference. Over."

"Sherlock's off his bloody face! Did you get that? FALSE ALARM! I'm staying to sort this mess out." Sherlock was now slumped against the D.I., sobbing hysterically and whimpering the horrified inspector's name and apologizing over and over. "Get back to work, and don't you even think about mentioning this to the chief! Over and out!"

The world's only consulting detective straightened and smiled at the D.I.

"Bloody hell Sherlock you manipulative bastard!" Lestrade couldn't help the smile.

John was trying to wipe the adoring grin from his face, painfully aware of Mycroft watching him ruefully as he beamed with pride at his detective's shockingly brilliant acting ability. Sherlock had taken Lestrade aside, leaving him perched on the edge of the couch,

with instructions to contact just a handful of his best men, just the ones he trusted implicitly and ask them to stay stationed up the road and to do it quietly. While he was engrossed in his task, and Mycroft was scowling dangerously at him, Sherlock took John's arm and lead him into the kitchen.

John didn't waste any time, he knew he wouldn't have the detective all to himself for long. As wild and unreal as their evening seemed to him now, he made the decision to show his friend that he was still his old self and hoped that Sherlock would not treat him differently now because of the new dynamic between them. He placed his hand on Sherlock's arm and squeezed gently, resisting the urge to get too much in the detective's personal space. He knew the brilliant mind was too distracted now anyway.

"Sherlock, are you alright? You're not enjoying this case like you do all the others, what has happened? It's not like you . . ." he trailed off and realized he was failing in his attempt not to appear needy. Sherlock gripped his hand and pulled him closer. He stood stiffly though and John couldn't tell what he wanted him to do.

"Mycroft . . ." the detective breathed, "He's scared. He's good at hiding it, and I really wasn't sure at first but I realized I'd seen that look on him once before. A long time ago, but I remember, he's truly scared. He's terrified. He'd never admit it and it's a betrayal for me to even think it but it's true. This is serious John."

"I know Sherlock I can tell that it's serious." John frowned, unable to resist the need to glance quickly at Mycroft who was now standing by the fire staring into the flames and pretending not to be listening to Lestrade muttering into his phone. "Just tell me what you want me to do Sherlock, I want to help." Sherlock smiled sadly and leaned down to nuzzle John's neck, sending a shot of tingling pleasure down the doctor's spine, despite everything.

"Get your coat, Dr Watson. We're going out."


	3. Chapter 3 - The Smoke Clears

**Chapter Three – The Smoke Clears**

Lestrade watched, hacked off and bewildered, as Sherlock rushed back and forth about the flat picking up various items and putting them back down again. John had been sent down to provide Mrs Hudson with a less startling version of what was happening and to help her pack a bag. Mycroft still sat in the orange glow of the fire, glowering and ignoring his brother's bustling about. Sherlock had called a cab for Mrs Hudson, telling her to go to her sister's for a night or two. They had worried about her going outside but Sherlock insisted that they act normally.

"As soon as we start acting suspiciously they will know that we know and then things _will_ get ugly," he had warned them. When Sherlock pulled on his coat in one smooth movement, Lestrade hooked his radio back onto his belt and made for the door.

"Where are we going?" he asked, thankful for the distraction from his thoughts and the deathly silence resonating from Mycroft. "What's the plan?"

John came back into the flat and took his jacket from where it hung on the back of a chair in the kitchen. Both men looked at Sherlock expectantly. The detective was not listening to him however, and had walked over to his brother.

He cleared his throat and placed a hand awkwardly on the seated man's shoulder, "I take it you're aware of our friend across the street?"

Mycroft nodded.

"And that your man is no longer able to finish the job? If he was ever planning on finishing it?"

Mycroft nodded again.

Sherlock swallowed and continued, "I'll need your phone, your ID, everything just in case. If you can't give me anything more to work with, I'll take no chances."

Silently Mycroft handed over his wallet and the contents of his pockets and finally a small packet of sweet mints.

"I won't need the mints," Sherlock told him.

"No I suppose not," Mycroft gave a little shrug and eyed his brother with a look that could have been mistaken for warm to someone who didn't know them like Lestrade did. "As you say, it's not as though we have many options." He pocketed the sweets again and patted his brother on the arm. "Good luck then, you might be a genius little brother but you're likely to need it this time."

Sherlock grimaced but didn't flinch away from his older brother's touch as he normally would. "Mycroft," he said, expression schooled in concentration, "you _can't_ give me anything more to work with . . . can you?"

Mycroft's eyes widened considerably and he stood, ominously close to the younger Holmes and made intimidating use of his ever so slight height advantage. Sherlock stood his ground and Mycroft eventually sagged and turned away,

"I never did anything to make you trust me Sherlock, I don't suppose I can expect any such miracle now."

They heard a car pull up outside and toot the horn once, followed by Mrs Hudson rattling her keys. All stood in silence until they heard the engine rev and the taxi drive away. John was waiting by the door ready to go as Sherlock swept past Lestrade and out onto the landing, wrapping his scarf about his throat and knotting it loosely at the front.

"You're staying here?" Lestrade asked over his shoulder as he made to follow the other two. Without warning Sherlock was back in the room and right up in his personal space.

"You're both staying here." Then Sherlock was turning and was leaving, leaving Greg with this arsehole, this man who embodied everything he hated about British politics. The smug, untouchable face, the aloof disconnection, the secrets. He was pissed now. If he'd been too distracted to be pissed off before, well he was sure as hell pissed off now.

"FUCK, SHERLOCK," he roared down the stairs after them, "What the HELL? You drag me here, tell me there's a MAJOR case going on and then fuck off to solve it yourself when I'M the one who is actually TRAINED for this? You leave ME here with Mycroft MOTHER FUCKING Holmes. Tell me Sherlock, why the HELL shouldn't I just call this in right now? Why won't you let me HELP?"

Sherlock stared up at him from the third last step, almost at the ground floor, his face lit only by the faint glow of the street lights outside, where John held the door open impatiently.

"WHO is the god damned target?" Greg asked, calming, but only a fraction. Sherlock's face was blank as he started to walk again, slowly taking the final couple of steps on his way out. If he hadn't spoken, Lestrade would probably have chased him down and punched him, but he did speak. As he left, just before the front door of 221b was closed quietly behind him, Lestrade heard his rumbling voice echo back up the stairs clearly.

"Mycroft mother fucking Holmes." The door swung closed behind him.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade felt a hand on his shoulder and whipped around to find Mycroft grinning at him.

"Fuck," he said to himself, turning away from the other man, embarrassed. How had he missed that? He scowled and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers, trying not to think about the 20 Lambert and Butler he had somehow acquired during the three days since he'd left the family home with his one suitcase. Somehow, despite everything, he'd managed to hold off. But now, surely now it could be justified.

He shoved his hand deep into his coat pocket and fingered the smooth edge of the box. Mycroft might object, he thought, but fuck him, he'd smoked in this flat before, in fact Sherlock had actively encouraged him to smoke here before so why the fuck not! He peeled off the cellophane and keeping cold eyes locked with Mycroft as he did it, he raised the butt of a cigarette to his lips, trying to give off an air of indifference. The tall elegant man seemed to shift uncomfortably at this blatant act of disrespect but it was soon transformed to an impish gleefulness as Lestrade fished pointlessly in the remainder of his pockets for the lighter he knew he had left in the glove compartment of his BMW. Greg rolled his eyes and groaned inwardly, hating the pleasure he was sure Mycroft was gaining from watching his embarrassment.

"Allow me to be of assistance Detective Inspector," Mycroft flicked open a neat gold lighter and lit it, not allowing Greg the chance to take it and light his cigarette himself. Lestrade shook his head wincing, not even trying to hide it from the other man and he leaned in slightly until he'd inhaled deeply that first really good drag on the first cigarette he'd had in . . . how long had it been this time? Coming on for six months surely. And all that demented suffering for nothing, all because of this wanker. Mycroft snapped the lighter closed and pocketed it again casually. He stood watching the inspector smoke for a long moment, his expression totally unreadable. Greg rocked on his heels, trying not to show that Mycroft was unnerving him so much.

Mycroft finally turned away and sauntered over to the dying embers again, this time

fingering the various objects adorning the mantelpiece. Occasionally he glanced at the D.I. in the gold framed mirror that hung above the fireplace. When Greg caught his eye he seemed to bristle and Greg noted this with unease as he recalled never having seen the man show irritation before today.  
>"I'm sure you have a myriad of questions Detective Inspector, but I don't believe you are unintelligent to the point of actually expecting me to provide the answers, so let's assume you weren't going to ask any questions and you can finish your cigarette and then be on your way. I would offer some sort of an apology on behalf of our fine country for the grievous waste of your time this evening, but I cannot take responsibility for my younger brother's ludicrous behaviour in inviting you here. It was your own decision to follow his instructions without question after all - although I don't pretend to be completely ignorant of the many possible reasons why you did." He sniffed and watched Greg take this in with another long drag on the cigarette. He obviously expected Greg to simply turn tail and leave. Greg Lestrade was not in the mood to play up to expectations no matter now tired and stressed he might be.<p>

"Well you are a rude, pompous, entitled, ignorant, insolent and intolerable bastard, so now we're even and you can give up trying to get rid of me, alright?"

"You forgot fat . . ." Mycroft spat with malice, "and you were wrong about the 'ignorant' part too. I happen to know a great deal about a great many things. One of them being that as long as you stay here, your life is in a considerable amount of danger. There really is no point in you being here. Whatever Sherlock thinks he's doing having you stay, he's actually making a huge mistake in involving civilians. So go back to Scotland yard, get some of that paperwork done and then you won't have to spend any more time in the company of a pompous bastard, and I can concentrate on sorting this out without having to concern myself with your obvious grudge."

"I'm not a _civilian_, I'm the bloody police. I'm who you're supposed to call when you're being threatened, not who you verbally abuse when you're having a childish, pointless, upper class strop! And I wouldn't exactly call it a grudge Mr Holmes, more of a learned response to negative stimulus as Sherlock would put it. I don't think anyone would blame me for wanting to punch you in the face every time I see you after what you did!"

Greg scratched the back of his head and dropped his gaze, embarrassed at his outburst. Dragging up ancient history was definitely not what he'd intended to do and it had taken him by surprise. Now Mycroft knew he was angry. Damn it! When he looked back up, the taller man had his eyes closed and was pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"I apologized at the time detective an-"

"Forget it Mycroft!"

"I APOLOGIZED at the TIME, Gregory, and you know I had my reasons,"

"You had _your_ reasons? That's bloody rich, what about _my_ reasons? Ah, fuck it! Look, there's no point in discussing it. It's done with now. I've had to suffer the abuse from idiot bigoted jumped up cops, and the stifled giggles and whispers from supposedly respected colleagues and YOU waltzed off without anyone even batting an eye!"

"I couldn't have been seen in that position Gregory you must understand that, my work is hard enough as it is without certain aspects of my personal life being made public. As much as I hate to say it, this is not a perfect world-"

"Yeah don't I bloody well know it! You'r-"

"As I was saying, there are less than perfect people in this world and my work would be impossible with half of them refusing to acknowledge me and the other half baying for my blood. There's a reason why a disproportionate number of political figures are heterosexual Lestrade and it has nothing to do with who they're shagging."

"YOU! Came. On. To. ME!" Greg fumed, turning a painful shade of purple.

"Yes Detective Inspector I am perfectly aware of that! And that is precisely why I offered you that CONSIDERABLE amount of money, to buy your silence _and_ to compensate you for the potentially negative social and professional ramifications. It was also an apology Gregory, one that I was under the impression you had accepted due to your having CASHED the CHEQUE!"

Both men turned away and a cold silence ensued.

"I didn't have an option with the bloody money." Greg's voice was quieter now and he had lost his flow. "I know that amount of money was probably nothing to the likes of you, but I have a family. I took the money Mycroft, there are more important things than pride! Anyway I kept my word, never told a soul, but you can't expect me to feel great about it."

"Family before pride eh? That'll be why you bought a . . Series 5 Gran Turismo was it? Sound investment I'm sure."

"Fuck off Mycroft! It _is_ a good investment! I had to make it look as if I'd got a bonus or something. I didn't know how things were going to turn out with the wife and I couldn't exactly tell her it was hush money after dry-humping the British government in an alleyway at a crime scene!"

Mycroft actually chuckled at that and Greg couldn't stop a little smile tingeing his lips before he grounded himself again. "It also explained the black eye!" he glowered, back in fully pissed off mode again. "Told her I'd got the bonus for taking down a violent criminal unarmed. Bloody ridiculous."

"I am truly sorry for your situation Gregory -"

"Well that should make you feel a whole lot better, shouldn't it . . ."

"Look, I didn't mean to punch you so hard, it's just I realized we'd been seen and had to act quickly. I have apologized to you and made every effort to keep our having to see each other professionally to an absolute minimum. I am perfectly aware that you have no wish to spend a moment longer than necessary in my company and I have to say that having heard your constant belittling and pathetic jibes every time we meet - despite it being in a purely official capacity - I'm not desperate to be spending this evening in your company either. Please leave!" Mycroft Holmes stood determined, his mouth set in a grim line and his brow furrowed, eyes piercing sharp and black into Greg's with heated rage. Right then, Greg saw a tiny red light dance over the wall behind Mycroft and his blood ran cold.

"Get down."

"Get ou-"

Greg drove his shoulder into the taller man with all his strength and the two of them went flying. Mycroft instinctively grabbed onto him for balance but Greg was falling too and they hit the floor hard. Greg felt his body slam down on top of the other man and before he knew what was happening his forehead connected with Mycroft's nose with sickening force.

Shots could be heard coming from outside and a shout, before silence again. Mycroft's nose ran red with blood, his face screwed up and his eyes closed. Lestrade didn't know if it was safe to stand but he'd become acutely aware of Mycroft's hands on his lower back, gripping his coat, and he was horrified to find that he was holding onto the other man with equal intensity.

After a long moment, Greg was confident that he could untangle himself from Mycroft's crumpled form and assess the situation properly. He straightened his arms and crawled backwards sheepishly. He kept low, unsure of whether the shots he'd heard were fired by his people or this sniper. He hoped for the former but couldn't be sure. Sherlock had forbidden use of the police radio unless they heard from him first. He crouched beside the coffee table and turned his attention back to Mycroft who lay motionless, eyes staring straight ahead breathing laboriously. His hands clutched at his stomach and Greg realized that he was badly winded. He reached down and began to help Mycroft to sit but as soon as he tilted his head, blood poured from his nose and he rolled onto his side groaning. It took him a few minutes to drag himself up onto his hands and knees, handkerchief clamped to his nose, glowering at the inspector.

Greg sat on his haunches beside the window, his gun in his hand. He knew it was pointless - he couldn't go shooting wildly out the window even if the sniper was still alive and about to take another shot. But he just felt better with his hand wrapped around his glock 17.

"Stay down," Greg warned. He held out his hand motioning for the other man not to come any closer to the windows.

"Just Leave!" Mycroft finally managed to straighten up, holding onto the arm of a chair for balance and he gestured angrily towards the door with his bloodied handkerchief.

"I'm not going anywhere Mycroft!" Greg hissed, keeping low and moving away from the windows and pulling the politician down to crouch beside him.

"Yes you are. You've caused enough trouble. Don't be deluded Gregory, I have people to look out for me. You're just getting in the way. You're going to cause more harm than good and you're preventing my people from doing their job!"

"You're kidding . . . . you pompous old fart. I just saved your life." Greg was amazed at the other man's lack of sense. "You think _I'm_ deluded? You need help. If your people had a clue what was going on, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't have come to Sherlock for help. Sherlock left me here to protect you, that's obvious, so that's what I'm going to do. If you could trust your own people then this whole thing wouldn't be happening now would it? And although it pisses you off, Sherlock obviously trusts me, so you know fine well you're stuck with me. Get bloody used to it."

Greg sighed irritably and slid his glock back into its holster. He could see that the other man was still fuming, but as they crouched together in the darkened room, Greg found himself noticing that Mycroft's body was leaned towards him. Mycroft's eyes dropped for a split second and then he looked back up at the inspector's face. Greg stared back, his pulse quickening. He was suddenly back in that alley across London, the look in the tall politician's eyes and his hand clutching at the D.I.'s shirt. This was the same, this strange feeling. Lestrade froze, blood coursing and pupils dilating as Mycroft's hand, came up and gripped his white shirt collar tightly. Their faces were inches apart now but Greg barely noticed that Mycroft's nose had stopped bleeding; he was too focused on the powerful man's fingers touching his neck where they'd twisted his shirt. He brought his hand up and placed it on Mycroft's wrist, not stopping him or asking him to remove his hand, just holding him there and they hung like that, with just the sound of their breathing in each other's ears. Until, all at once, the sound of a rifle shot, breaking glass, and Mycroft lurching backwards and hitting the ground.


	4. Chapter 4 -Escape From Baker Street

**Chapter Four – Escape from Baker Street**

Blood. On his hands. Mycroft's blood on his hands. Hot and sticky and . . . _oh shit_. Greg fumbled his way from the politician's blood soaked shirt up to his neck, searching frantically for a pulse. He couldn't find one, his hands were shaking so much - but that might also have been because the injured man beneath him was hissing and batting at him.

"Get off me," Mycroft growled through gritted teeth, clutching at his right arm where the bullet had hit him. Greg came to his senses and immediately sprang back to the window. He peered around the curtain, gun clamped in both hands at his waist, safety off. He scanned the street below and the buildings opposite but he could see nothing. Were his people still there? There was a small hole in the glass where the bullet had pierced through leaving a spider's web of fragile cracks branching off in all directions in its wake. He turned back to Mycroft who was now seated on the floor leaning back against the chair by the fire, and crossed the room towards him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and authoritative but feeling more and more out of his depth.

"I'm fine. I got hit but just my arm. I'm fine," Mycroft was clearly not fine at all.

"We can't stay here. I know Sherlock said to wait for word but this isn't working." Greg crouched back down next to the pale and grimacing politician and helped him out of the sleeve of his coat examining his arm quickly. The bullet hadn't hit the bone. It had grazed him though, leaving a long open gash on the side of his upper bicep. Greg grabbed one of the clean shirts from the laundry basket and tied it tightly around the wound, hoping to at least slow the bleeding until they could get somewhere safe. He tied another shirt around Mycroft's forearm and knotted the sleeves at the back of his neck in a makeshift sling. Mycroft looked peaky and his breath was shallow. Greg was worried that he was going to pass out so he spoke urgently,

"Hey Hey Look at me. What's your name?"

"Mycroft . . mother fuck . . ." Mycroft descended into a fit of tense laughter which was so out of character that Greg was momentarily lost for words. He had to keep the other man talking, had to bring him back to himself.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Greg tried again.

"Four." Mycroft's answer was correct but his eyes were closed and he was slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. Lucky guess.

"Alright Mycroft just stay with me alright?" Greg gently repositioned Mycroft until he was once again focused properly on Greg's face. "Who's the Prime Minister?"

Mycroft sucked in a lung full of air and smirked but within a second he seemed to remember where he was. The usual frown was back on his face and he'd straightened himself up, gripping his injured arm defensively.

"Just get me a drink, will you?" Mycroft spat, "I'm not concussed! I've been shot."

Greg sighed in relief. "No, you're not supposed to drink while in shock, you look like you're about to vomit as it is."

"For pity's sake Gregory I'm an adult and if we're going to get out of this alive I'm going to need to stop this shaking and get this pain under control. I need a whiskey! Now."

Greg didn't feel great about it but he didn't seem to have many other options. He stood up and strode into the kitchen where he picked his way cautiously through the assault course of piled up dishes and Sherlock's precariously balanced experiments until he found a dusty bottle of 25 year old Talisker stashed in the back of a cupboard unopened. Knowing Sherlock, it was probably expensive - but this was an emergency. He cracked the seal open and took a swig. It burned his throat and instantly cleared his head. He hurried back to Mycroft and handed him the bottle. The other man grabbed at it, wincing from the sudden movement and reading the label with a look of mild appreciation, he brought the bottle to his lips and drank.

"Whoa whoa whoa hold on there," Greg took the bottle back sharply. "Not too much!" Mycroft glared but didn't argue, he even took Lestrade's offered hand as he tried to stand. Once he was on his feet he seemed a little less peaky and although he still seemed dazed and a bit spaced out, Greg could see that the shirt was doing an alright job of suppressing the bleeding.

More noise from out in the street had both their hearts racing and Greg took control; he made sure that there was still a lamp left glowing in the corner by the window to keep their assailant's interest as they made their escape. They left via the back door of Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Greg held onto a rather shaky Mycroft to make sure he didn't fall as they made their way down the stairs. Lestrade's reaction to seeing the laser sight on the wall had given them away, Mycroft told him frostily. The use of the sight at all had been a test to ascertain whether the two men were aware of the impending danger.

"No right minded sniper would use a laser sight to target two sitting ducks unless he wanted a reaction," Greg was icily informed.

It made sense, and now that they knew that their assailant knew that they knew, it was only a matter of time before someone came to finish them off properly.

"It is also likely that the plan has already been aborted and that a plan B is being rolled out as we speak. They'll still want me dead but only when I give them information about how I discovered the threat in the first place," Mycroft declared.

But Greg wasn't interested. He was on a mission. Mycroft was clearly not able to protect himself from whoever it was that was after him, and Greg knew better than to suggest they go to a hospital. Having grabbed a small first aid kit from Mrs Hudson's kitchen drawer on their way out, Greg was determined to get Mycroft away from 221B and somewhere . . . somewhere else, so he could sort the man out properly before coming up with a bigger and better plan.

The rain had stopped thankfully, but the wind still whipped up around them as they hurried away from Baker Street trying not to look too conspicuous. As they came to a dark corner and paused for breath, Greg's police radio crackled to life and a male voice requested an update.

"They've been compromised then," the politician's expression was not regretful or concerned and his tone was flat. Greg tried not to think about what had happened to his people but it was clear that Mycroft was right and they had been discovered. Nobody on Lestrade's team would have forgotten a direct order for radio silence.

They kept moving through the streets, always working on the assumption that they were being followed. They kept to back streets and dodged through one or two back gardens until Mycroft was staggering and clutching his arm and Greg himself was starting to flag. They stopped in an alleyway where the light from an emergency exit sign was bright enough for Greg to do what was needed.

They were out of the wind here but the sound of it howled wildly as leaves and the odd sheet of newspaper were swept past. Mycroft dabbed at his nose with a wad of tissues he'd pulled from his pocket and sniffed gingerly, making sure the bleeding had stopped. Going by the lack of swelling Greg figured that his nose wasn't broken.

"I'm assuming you know what you're doing, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft whinged, stopping and glancing around himself miserably. Greg ignored him but tried to be as gentle as possible as he slid the long coat from the politician's bad shoulder and started to untie the temporary dressing. The shirt was soaked in blood - the previously purple cotton was now a warm sticky brown mess and Lestrade discarded it, throwing it onto the ground and assessing the damage. The wound was still bleeding a lot and despite being bathed in yellowish neon light from the sign above them Greg was able to see that Mycroft was completely drained of colour. Running about in the cold couldn't have helped but what else could he do? He pulled a pocket knife from his jacked and quickly set to work cutting away Mycroft's shirt sleeve. Then, since there was nowhere sterile to set anything down, he had Mycroft hold the first aid kit open so he could use both hands to find what he needed. He'd brought the Talisker in his deep coat pocket and it had sloshed about noisily the whole way there. After rolling up his sleeves, he rinsed his hands with it before handing it to Mycroft with an apologetic look. Mycroft accepted it weakly, took a swig and watched gingerly as Greg tore open an antiseptic wipe and prepared to clean the wound. Greg knew that however much the other man was determined to keep his cool, this was going to burn like a bitch and he was likely to see Mycroft Holmes's controlled persona evaporate before his eyes.

The first dab of the cold, sharp smelling wipe only made Mycroft inhale and turn his face to the brick wall. Gradually though, as Greg worked diligently to tidy the torn flesh and clean the wound, the injured man's control began to slip. Greg noticed he'd been holding his breath for a good while and was starting to shake a little. Suddenly the normally stoic politician growled like an animal and slammed his clenched fist into the wall with a painful crack. He recoiled, swearing loudly and Greg took a defensive step back. After glaring coldly, Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. He turned back to face the wall and allowed Greg to continue taking care of him. Greg's pulse was racing but he ignored his own apprehension in order to get the job done.

He finished quickly, applying a thick gauze pad over the wound and adding a pressure pad before covering it with an elasticated bandage. He went to place the knotted shirt sling over Mycroft's head but the other man stopped him.

"No, it'll be alright," he said, inspecting the D.I.'s work.

"You need to keep it as still as possible, this will help. If you move it you're just going to make it bleed more and we don't have more bandages." He went to secure the sling again and this time Mycroft let him.

"Thank you," the tall man said simply, not allowing eye contact. Greg was taken aback slightly by Mycroft's genuinely polite gesture and it took him a moment to word his reply so it didn't sound mocking or angry.

"Don't mention it." He grunted with a curt nod and set about packing away the first aid kit. Mycroft took it from him and removed something before handing it back. He turned away and Greg saw that the man's knuckles were covered in blood from where he'd punched the wall. Greg didn't catch himself in time and snorted with laughter as Mycroft struggled to unravel the small bandage with one hand. Whipping round and grabbing the detective by his shirt collar, Mycroft brought his face right up to Greg's and eyed him with disdain.

"Glad to see you're enjoying yourself Gregory, soak it up while you can. We'll be going our separate ways as soon as this is over and you can get back to chasing petty criminals."

Greg felt his anger start to rise again.

"Just wait a god damn minute! I am doing everything in my power to help you and I'm sick of having it thrown back in my face. You might claim that you try to keep our meetings civil but I'm not deaf to your snide little remarks either, and I'm not putting up with it any more. I am not your lackey! Disrespect me one more time and I will bloody well walk away. Pretend all you like that you're still in control but you know as well as I do that you need me right now, alright? So I want some respect please! Don't worry, I won't _tell_ anyone! . . ."

Greg just had time to register the fire in the other man's expression before Mycroft had reached out and the D.I. was pinned against the brick wall with his whole body. Greg gasped, and felt his face flush as Mycroft brought his lips to meet his own with a deep and angry kiss. Sparks flew between them, taking Greg by surprise. He faltered for a moment before seizing the opportunity he hadn't known he'd been waiting for, and kissed back, forcing his eager tongue past Mycroft's lips and into his mouth. Mycroft's good arm was raised up, his hand at the back of the D.I.'s head, deepening their kiss with bruising force.

"Jesus fucking Christ . ." Greg breathed when Mycroft broke away. The politician pulled himself back, eyes still locked on a very bewildered Gregory Lestrade.

"You not going to punch me this time?" Greg asked with a smirk.

Mycroft smiled in apparent relief and shook his head,

"Hadn't planned on it inspector, but then again, none of this was actually in the plan."

He glanced up and down the alley. Greg took a step forwards, and brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head, feeling suddenly awkward again and not knowing what to do. He wanted to grab the other man and pull him back down but now he wasn't sure if -. His thoughts were cut off instantly when Mycroft turned back round towards him, his good arm curled around Greg's waist and his face just an inch away from the confused and alarmingly aroused D.I.

"You could always take the opportunity to punch me back?" Mycroft murmured, raising an eyebrow and fixing his sharp blue eyes on Greg's.

"Just shut the fuck up and touch me . ." Greg cursed as Mycroft closed the space between them. He gasped as Mycroft slid his hand down from the small of his back to grab determinedly at his arse. Greg bit down on Mycroft's bottom lip, drawing a breathy moan from the other man, and wrapped his right arm around his neck. His hand hovered delicately over the injured man's shoulder not wanting to cause him more pain and especially not wanting to stop him pawing and kneading at him. Thankfully his hand found somewhere to go before he had to think about it and as he kissed his way down the politician's jaw and neck, he tugged at the other man's belt, causing Mycroft to roll his head back and let out an audible sigh.

"Oh good grief!" Mycroft breathed, and leaned into the inspector. He cursed out loud when Greg, having failed to open the tall man's belt with one hand, gave up in frustration and began cupping and palming him through his neatly pressed trousers.

A police car sped past the entrance to their alleyway and both men were brought back to reality with the screech of sirens. They froze.

"We should keep moving," Greg said after clearing his throat and lowering his gaze from the lust filled eyes of Mycroft Holmes. This was by far the weirdest night of his life and there had been some pretty weird ones since he'd joined the police force. They had become considerably weirder the moment he'd been introduced to Sherlock Holmes and he hadn't believed that things could get any _more_ weird after that night at Roland Kerr when he had first encountered the elder Holmes brother, but now _this_ topped the list. Mycroft didn't move, except to slide his hand back up to rest on Greg's lower back, keeping his eyes locked on Lestrade's face, reading him. Eventually he nodded

"Agreed, that would be the sensible manoeuvre. We're left with the rather bothersome predicament however, where to go . . . I'd say back to mine . . .but perhaps now's not a good time . . ." he smirked and Greg covered his own smile with the back of his hand and watched as the other man struggled to open up the whiskey with just one free hand. He finally managed to remove the top, pocketing it before raising the bottle in a mock cheery salute and knocking it back. Greg eyed the taller man reproachfully. Fair enough he was in pain but was he going to drink the whole bottle? Greg needed Mycroft thinking straight if he had any chance of helping him.

"Are you just going to get drunk then? Just get plastered in a dank alleyway and make out with a greying, homeless, workaholic policeman and wait for them to come and get you?" He wasn't trying to get a rise out of the other man, he was just hoping that a little reality check might be enough to spur Mycroft's brain into action. Mycroft dropped his good arm and glanced down at the bottle in his hand and Greg thought for a moment that he was going to hurl the bottle angrily at the wall but after a moment's pause, he offered the bottle to Greg with a shrug, wincing at the movement. Greg took the bottle and took a small swig before placing it down decisively on the concrete step at the emergency exit. He looked at Mycroft expectantly, hoping he had a plan. They really needed a plan. Both men jumped when the D.I.'s phone rang suddenly. He took it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

"Number withheld?" Mycroft questioned, eyebrow raised.

"Actually no . . . but it means nothing to me. 07754983-" he was cut off when Mycroft finished the number for him,

"009."

Greg stared up at his companion and waited for an explanation. The phone continued to buzz in his hand and the flashing number brightly illuminated his expectant expression.

"My . . . assistant," the politician stated shortly, staring at the phone. Greg made to hand it over but Mycroft took a step back as though the phone might bite him and shook his head. "She's . . . If they know, then she's probably already dead." He shook his head again and Greg thought he saw real pain flash across the steely blue frown. "She wouldn't have risked phoning if she knew anything about this. She's a smart woman, she'll have given them false information for as long as she could. But if something's gone wrong, and they haven't gotten to her yet . . ." He trailed off and the phone stopped ringing.

The two men stood in the cold wet silence staring at the blank screen in the detective's hand.

"Seven hells . ." Mycroft spluttered through gritted teeth and let his head drop, defeated.

Greg pushed the phone into the other man's good hand and stepped back. "Phone her back, if there's a chance you can warn her then do it."

Mycroft allowed himself the tiniest of glances down at the phone but before he could even consider it, his old controlled and blank expression was back in place and he smiled weakly at the D.I., turning the phone off and setting his mouth in a grim line.

"The game has changed Lestrade, it's not the same one we were playing back at Baker Street. If we make contact with her, it will give her away. Sherlock was right to order zero contact. If we make even the briefest of communications we'll give ourselves away. In fact we'd do better to remove all communication devices - that way any remote trackers being used won't give our location away either." He placed Greg's phone gently next to the almost drained bottle of whiskey on the cold ground and then unclipped the police radio too. "Even if she _is_ still alright, which I doubt, any contact with her would be like pointing the finger at her. The best thing we can do for her and everyone is to keep moving and survive this somehow." He turned back to face the detective and Greg saw with relief that Mycroft was completely back in control. No sign of breaking, not yet. He nodded.

"Where to then?"

"Leicester Square," Mycroft stated flatly.

"What? Why there?" Greg was incredulous. They'd been skulking about in the shadows and now Mycroft wanted to go to one of the most bustling and mobbed places in the whole of central London!

"I have a plan Gregory. I need to make a call."

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just a quick thank you to everyone who has read this far. From here on in the idea is that the chapters will be alternating between Johnlock and Mystrade. I hope you like both pairings as much as I do! I'd love to hear what you think of the story as it goes on, so please leave a review or message me if you have the time, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks again! xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five - The Hostel and Nelson**

Their taxi pulled in to the kerb and Sherlock jumped out. John hadn't even managed to pay the cabbie before the detective was pushing his way past the swinging glass doors of the brightly lit building at which they had arrived. John swore under his breath as he remembered that he'd left his cash and almost everything else in a soggy, crumpled heap on his flatmate's bedroom floor. Thankfully he remembered that his cards were safely stowed in his inside jacket pocket so he avoided embarrassment and smiled politely at the driver's scowl, as the man fished around in the front of the car for his card reader. It was infuriatingly slow to connect, and John's leg twitched as he perched expectantly on the edge of his seat, waiting. He glanced out of the window towards the glass fronted building and saw the detective sweeping across the lobby, making a beeline for the reception desk, coat billowing behind him.

By the time John had his debit card tucked back into his pocket and had entered the building himself, Sherlock was already making a scene. John stopped, embarrassed, and took in the horrified expression on the receptionist's face and the sharp cutting words his friend's appalling lack of social skills had resulted in him saying. The doctor shuffled his feet uncomfortably and tried to imagine that the receptionist didn't know he was there with this madman. Sherlock became so much more animated as the argument continued, that John hoped that the poor woman might not notice him at all. Even if he knew why Sherlock was being such a blatant dick to the young woman, John realised that he had no hope of rectifying the situation. The shocked expression on her face had now morphed into one of righteous anger, he noticed with dismay. He really needed to have a proper talk with the consulting detective about his tone, he thought to himself, hoping not to be noticed as he skulked over to one of the many open doorways leading off from the lobby.

He peering down a bright clean corridor. This was like no homeless shelter that John had ever seen, but then again he hadn't seen one since Harry did her little run away act when they'd still been in their teens. They hadn't found her in a hostel or a shelter though, she'd come home while John was still out looking. He'd been so relieved that she was safe and hadn't found her way into any of those dirty, depressing and dangerous places that he hadn't been able to be angry at her selfish stupidity. She always got away with everything, he remembered, maybe that was the problem. Maybe if she'd been forced to take some responsibility earlier in her life then she'd have more self-control and be able to stop drinking now. Lost in his thoughts, he slipped down one of the corridors and decided to take a look around. The place was pretty big, recently refurbished and not at all like any of the places he had seen years ago. Surely not all homeless shelters were like this though, he thought, glancing back over his shoulder to where Sherlock was slamming his fists down in frustration on the desk.

"This is preposterous!" the consulting detective was yelling, "Ms Grant doesn't have a problem with passing on a simple message! Why isn't she here? She's always here! Why do you have such a huge problem? Hm? Why are you here? Nobody even likes you!" The woman snorted with laughter and then her tone changed, lowering a little and she spoke clearly and with great control,

"Because she has been suspended for failure to uphold our data protection policy. That is why she is not here, and I am here because it is my job. I do not have a problem with this situation at all Mr Holmes, it would appear that if there is a problem, that it is yours. I'm afraid I cannot help you further in this matter. As I've already explained to you, if I agree to pass on a message then I would be giving you reason to believe that your intended recipient is likely to be returning to these premises. We do not do that here Mr Holmes, not any more, that is not what this organization is about and whether or not you think anybody 'likes' me has absolutely nothing to do with it"

Sherlock launched into another insult filled, frustration fuelled, ejaculation of gigantic proportions but John was already halfway down the corridor, relieved that the angry shouts were becoming less audible the further he went. He passed an empty kitchen area with a canteen like dining space, a closed door with a sign saying 'Women's Showers', and a wooden door with a glass panel through which he could see stairs and a sign saying 'Dorms 7 – 10'.'

John was about to turn around and take the slow walk back towards the scene of angry confusion when he heard a shout, followed by other voices cheering and a bout of laughter. He turned to see where the noise was coming from and walked further along to the end of the corridor to another closed door with a glass panel. This one was signed 'Education and Development for the Workplace'. John was sure he wasn't supposed to be here and that had the woman currently sparring with the impossible detective noticed him sneaking about, she would have asked him to leave. But he could still hear her giving the genius a verbal run for his money. John pushed the door open and stuck his head round. Inside, a dozen figures were crowded around one of approximately thirty PCs and they all turned abruptly to stare at John as he entered the room.

"H-hi," he mumbled awkwardly, but the group turned their attention immediately back to their screens and were once again chattering and laughing amongst themselves. John cleared his throat and headed for the other end of the long room where there were desks and a projector and various other items typical of a classroom. He pretended to be interested in the assorted posters and leaflets scattered around and listened to the men at the far end thoroughly involved in whatever they were doing. He turned at the end of the room, running his fingertips over where someone had carved 'Pens Are Friends' into the wood of a table top. Curiosity got the better of him and he found himself wandering past the group nonchalantly. They had a PS3 connected to one of the PCs with a complicated set of wires and John stood and watched their game for a moment before feeling horribly out of place despite his appreciation for games, and headed back towards to door. He'd just stepped back into the corridor, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Hi," he said, surprised to see one of the young men who'd ignored him just a moment ago. He wore an open short sleeved shirt with a white t-shirt underneath and was eyeing John curiously through thick rimmed glasses. He was scratching the back of his closely shaved head with his left hand while holding his right out to the doctor with a friendly smile.

"Hi there," the other man beamed, shaking John's hand for a good few seconds longer than most people would feel was necessary. "You looked a little lost in there mate. Thought I might offer you a little tour, show you the sights, the dorms?" he released John's hand but took a half step closer. He raised an eyebrow suggestively and, reaching out, stroked a hand up the doctor's arm. John stared at the young man in something like horror but was too shocked to reply. He glanced down at the hand still gently touching his upper arm and then up to meet the younger man's eye. "If you're interested that is?" the man said with a smile.

"What?" John baulked, finally finding his voice. "What? No!" he was about to say 'I'm not gay' but he wasn't sure if he could say that any more. "No, no, I'm just here with . . uh . .my friend and I'm just waiting here . ." he stuttered feeling his cheeks flush red. The other man smiled cheekily and cocked his head, leaning in, and forcing John to keep eye contact.

"You worried? Don't be, I'm legal. You have to be eighteen to stay here. I just turned nineteen." He folded his arms as though that settled the matter and took a step back, turning with a wink. "So, you coming?"

"N-no!" John was incredulous. "I'm not going to follow you to your dorm! I told you I'm just here waiting for my friend," he nodded over his shoulder towards the lobby. The young man rolled his eyes but smiled again. He pulled a scrap of paper from his chequered shirt pocket and reaching around John's side, slipped it quickly into the doctor's pocket in a gently fluid movement before the doctor could stop him.

"In case you change your mind," the stranger breathed into John's ear before turning swiftly on his heel and disappearing back through the door, leaving John alone.

John stared at the closed door for a long moment, replaying what had just happened. He'd never been hit on by a guy, not since he'd been invalided home at least. In fact he rarely got hit on at all. But now, by a young attractive man, right after his first ever homosexual experience? Could people tell? Did they all know? He was sweating, standing in the warm corridor still wearing his coat and he decided to blame the heat for the fact that his face was still flushing pink. He started back towards the lobby as he realised that he hadn't heard Sherlock's raised voice since he'd left the 'games' room.

"John! We're leaving!" Sherlock's shout made him jump slightly and he quickened his pace, re-emerging into the lobby to find the detective still glowering at the receptionist while she spoke angrily into a large black radio. He picked up the word 'security.'

"No luck then?" John was only half trying to make a point. Sherlock ignored his know-it-all smirk and shrugged.

"Have to try another one . ." the detective grimaced taking out his phone and pacing back and forth across the lobby determinedly. He stopped and stared at John suddenly, as if only just registering something he should have noticed before.

"Why are you . . What's . . Why don't you just say it John? Clearly you're trying _not_ to say something but it's evident from your gait as you entered the room and your elevated breathing that you're positively desperate to impart some _vital_ piece of information. So spit it out, Dr Watson, we're against the clock after all." Sherlock held his hand out palm raised to the doctor expectantly.

John froze and then made a decision. Why the fuck not? Twice in twelve hours young attractive men had attempted to get into his pants and he had no reason to be ashamed. Alright, so he was a little embarrassed, but Sherlock was not going to let it go. So he cleared his throat, no longer bothering to hide the slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well . . I was just propositioned. By a nineteen year old, boy," John stated, shrugging and letting his hands flop back down to his sides. Sherlock eyed him for a brief moment and then to the doctor's complete annoyance he snorted loudly with laughter.

"Right, yes, very good, shall we be on our way?" Sherlock grinned and pointed toward the door.

"What was that?" John prickled with anger. Why should Sherlock disbelieve him?

Alright so he wasn't the best looking man on the planet but he had a few good things going for him and the detective himself had practically seduced him just a few hours ago! He flushed at the memory and with indignant outrage. "You don't believe me? That's quite funny coming from you, you who couldn't get enough not so long ago!" Sherlock was still smiling and shaking his head.

"Look, it isn't that you're not, desirable John. Just that it's possible that you might have misinterpreted the situation." Sherlock smiled with an almost genuinely kind assurance but John was far from appeased. He shook his head, bewildered at the audacity of his friend. Again Sherlock went to leave but John grabbed his arm, pulling him back round. Fishing out the young man's number, John pushed the neatly folded scrap of paper up at Sherlock's face, his own furnished with a smug grin.

"Proof," John smirked.

Sherlock took the paper between thumb and forefinger and opened it, keeping his eyes locked on John's. He cleared his throat and cast his gaze down to read, "This is pointle . ." The detective stopped short, scanning the piece of paper. He glanced up at John then back down and in that split second John knew. He just knew.

"Alight, point made, let's be going then shall we?" Sherlock whipped around and was back out onto the street and hailing a cab in a second, leaving John flustered and rushing after him.

"Show me the paper!" John had hold of Sherlock's arm and the strength of his grip brought the detective's attention back from the slow stream of traffic creeping past. Sherlock shrugged but didn't meet John's eye as he passed the folded slip into the other man's hand. John opened it and read,

'Mr Holmes, your brother is in trouble - Trafalgar Square – 1 hour – There's going to be an explosion - Look for a brunette with a backpack.'

God damn it. Sherlock wasn't watching him but that almost made it worse. If he had said 'I told you so', or given him 'the look', then John could have felt angry or indignant to cover up the horrifying embarrassment. But whether Sherlock was being uncharacteristically kind, or had just become bored and had already moved on, it left him feeling used and empty. Nothing was mentioned about it again.

Sherlock had stopped a cab and was leaning on the door, stooping low to speak to the driver "Trafalgar Square," he said, his eyes bright once again and he practically skipped into the back seat, clasping his leather clad fingers together in gleeful enrapture. John clambered in and sat watching out of the window, feeling ridiculous. He tried to swallow his insecurity and concentrated on keeping his mind on the case at hand. He stared out of the window and thought about the hidden file, about Mycroft. He hoped that Lestrade's people were managing to keep Baker Street free of unwanted attention and that Sherlock's plan for the two men left at 221B to remain acting as though ignorant of the impending danger was still working.

He knew that Sherlock's relationship with his brother was complicated but there were so many layers to all of Sherlock's relationships that John supposed they must love each other on some level. If they failed in this, if something happened to Mycroft, what would that do to Sherlock? They risked their lives in ridiculous ways on an increasingly regular basis it seemed, but John was starting to realize that Sherlock wasn't prepared for losing someone. He glanced over at this friend, took in the pout of concentration, the serious, unflinching eyes, his long fingers drumming on his knee as they moved infuriatingly slowly through the London traffic. Even at this time of night the streets were too busy for them to make any real progress. Sherlock checked his watch and grimaced, mouthing the word 'damn' and then realized he was being watched. He ignored John, and leaned forward in his seat to barter with the driver over which route they take. When he leaned back again John could tell that his friend was stressed. Sherlock's leg was tensely shaking and his own hand gripped his thigh tightly. The doctor was hit with a crushing wave of ignominy. Here he was feeling sorry for himself and all because some teenager had made a shitty joke at his expense. There were more important things than his pride in the world, their current predicament being one of them. Sherlock sat next to him, brilliant mind racing, trying desperately to save a life, his own brother's life. John's hand reached out to rest on Sherlock's, and held tightly to him, pressing down just enough to still his shaking leg.

"It's going to be okay," he heard himself saying, "We will get there in time."

Sherlock's whole body stiffened and he looked at his friend. For a brief moment John could see all the possible responses - the seething, deprecating, clinically logical retorts flashing across his eyes, but Sherlock didn't utter a peep. John was the first to look away and when he hazarded a glance back, the detective was once again engrossed in the busy hustle and bustle of the city streets and the outside world. John remembered that his hand was still covering the detective's own on his thigh and he would have been about to move it, if the detective had not in the same instant, deliberately or otherwise, shifted his hand a fraction so that his pinkie finger now curled over John's thumb. Keeping him there.

Perhaps it was Sherlock's naivety, his failure to ever consider the possibility of losing someone, or being at all responsible for the consequences, that made him so successful. Was it that Sherlock was so sure of himself that he couldn't fail? Solving cases by riding high above the possibility of failure, high on his own certainty in his abilities? They needed that Sherlock now. If Sherlock doubted himself for even a moment, then that could make all the devastating difference. The cab pulled up at Trafalgar Square and Sherlock slipped out from under John's hand and thrust a fifty at the driver, muttering to himself, though still audibly, that he would have taken an open topped bus if he'd wanted a city tour. John stepped out after him and they both took in the wide open concrete space as the cab rumbled off into the night.

The four huge bronze lions looked black against the orange glow of the light polluted sky, as the two men paced back and forth across the square. John hurried to match the detective's long strides as usual, but still had time to scan the tourists milling about by the fountains and the groups of teenagers laughing and shouting obscenities. One, on rollerblades, swept past them too close and John's heart raced beneath his thick jacket but he kept his expression neutral. The kid swung round and made to grab for Sherlock's scarf which hung loose around his neck. Sherlock hadn't appeared to be aware of the kids or anyone else, so intently was he searching for their contact. But at the last second he ducked coolly aside, pulling John smoothly with him and they both steadily kept their pace. John staunchly resisted the urge to turn and laugh along with the group, as rollerblades connected with a black metal bin and a young skinny black clad body connected with the ground. He just smiled briefly listening to the hilarity and sprawling groans.

They neared the east fountain and Sherlock stopped and hopped neatly up onto the stone edge, scanning the small groups milling about.

John tugged on his arm, "Shouldn't we keep out of sight Sherlock?" He wasn't daft enough to think that just because nobody appeared to be paying them any attention, that they weren't being watched. "Get down will you? We shouldn't be this obvious." Sherlock turned a full 360' before dropping lightly down to the ground again and then to John's dismay made a bee-line for Nelson's Column. Sherlock swung himself up to stand beside a lion and placed his hand on the animal's bronze mane, turning slowly and taking in the people before him. The doctor tried to be useful from below and watch the crowd for anyone suspicious but it was hard to keep his gaze from returning to the detective, whose profile and proud stature made him seem as though he were made to keep company with those lions. Sherlock's hair ruffled slightly in the breeze and a spotlight passed across the sky behind him. John's insides tingled as his gaze was eventually met and the taller man jumped down and strode over to re-join him.

"You think that if we're being followed then we have any chance of hiding? Here? In Trafalgar Square? With this level of closed circuit television and the eyes and ears of the city all around us? There's no need to act even more suspicious by trying to go unnoticed." He nodded toward the fountain where he seated himself, perched precariously on the edge and indicated for John to join him. "There's a time and a place for disguises et cetera but I've never been one for avoidance tactics where they aren't necessary. We'll wait here." Sherlock patted the cold stone to his right and John sat himself down. The detective brought his phone out to check the time - 23:20 - "Still plenty of time."

John squirmed, the cold stone of the fountain seeping through his clothes and making him shiver. He pulled the sleeves of his jacket down over his hands and tucked them under his arms, very aware that this action had not gone unnoticed by the detective. Sherlock had taken similar precautions against the icy November wind that seemed to come from all directions. His collar was turned up and sensibly _he_ had remembered his gloves unlike the doctor who'd neglected to pick his up in his distracted excitement when they'd left Baker Street.

The doctor's breath visibly caught in his throat, the white vapour cloud turning to a thin mist and vanishing before him, as he watched Sherlock's lithe fingers unknot his ubiquitous blue scarf, and pull it delicately from his long white neck. He turned to the doctor and John felt the warm material being wrapped twice around his throat. The soft cotton tickled under his chin but he couldn't have moved to stop it even if he hadn't been relishing every second that the detective's protective hands spent tucking the scarf into his jacket collar. Sherlock's eyes locked on his and John finally allowed himself to breathe again, hot breath coming quickly now, expelling clouds of mist into the night air once more. Sherlock gave a satisfied nod and suddenly the rest of the world came rushing back to John. The shouts of the excited tourists were louder and the sound of splashing water from the fountain bubbled back into his consciousness. The famously cold and unfeeling consulting detective was once again letting his gaze sweep over the square looking for their backpack wearing brunette and John smiled unabashed, tucking his chin further down into the sweet smell of Sherlock's olfactory musk. Let every young attractive person he bumped into laugh and make fun of him for ever more, he had his detective, all he wanted was his detective, all that he had ever needed was his detective.


	6. Chapter 6 - Leicester Square Calling

**Author's Note: Google Translate was used to work this chapter out, and it is undoubtedly teeming with errors. I was too embarrassed to ask my Dutch, French, and even American friends to help me, so I'm sorry for all the mistakes and hope you have an idea what's going on anyway. Thanks for sticking with me. Reviews would make me soooooo happy :D**

**Chapter Six - Leicester Square Calling**

Lestrade squeezed himself into the phone box beside Mycroft and shuffled around until he'd found a mostly comfortable position, resting his elbow on the rusted metal shelf beneath the receiver. He managed to close the door behind him, just, and turned to peer out of the grimy glass at Leicester Square tube station and the bustling crowds roaming past. The lights of the Hippodrome lit up the heaving throngs ambling in and out of the surrounding bars and restaurants. Mycroft was twisting his body awkwardly, trying to get his left hand into his right coat pocket and struggling in the cramped space. He grimaced and twisted again only to hiss sharply when he bumped his injured arm against the shelf.

"Hold still," Lestrade scolded, not wanted to have to re-bandage the bloody laceration quite yet. He slipped his hand into the other man's deep coat pocket. "What am I looking for?"

"Change," Mycroft said, shifting slightly to allow Greg to reach his other pocket also. "I need to make a call and I don't think I have any change. Sherlock took my wallet."

After a few seconds of fingers brushing nothing but fluff and a roll of mints, Greg shook his head in answer. He shoved both hands into his own pockets with an eyebrow raised doubtfully as Mycroft looked on.

"Yes!" he smiled with relief, holding up a small handful of silver.

Mycroft counted out about a pound fifty in tens and twenties on the shelf and then frowned, "We need more."

"How much more? Who are you calling?" Greg asked with annoyance as he continued to dig through the mess in his coat. But he was sure there wasn't much point.

"Brighton," Mycroft stated, not surprised in the least by Greg's confused expression.

"But Brighton shouldn't cost that m-"

"But it won't be this line. I'm utilizing a sadly redundant code and patch system that we used in espionage back in the day."

Greg's voice went up a semitone, "_You_ were in _espionage_?"

"Sssssh! No, I meant 'we' as in the good people of our _great_ country." Mycroft stressed the 'great' with a sarcastic glower. "_We_ the governing body, et cetera." Glancing at the cash on the shelf again, he lifted the receiver and began to dial.

"Good evening, I'm calling on behalf of Mr George Blithe, can I speak to Ms Rover please? . . . . . Thank you that would be very much appreciated."

Mycroft turned his attention back to Greg and waited, eyes resting briefly on his collar where, Greg had noticed earlier, one of them had left a smear of blood. Possibly from the bullet, possibly from when Mycroft had grabbed him in the alley. Greg subconsciously ran his tongue over his lower lip and waited.

"This is box 224954, please patch this call to 50.4942 November, 0.0822 Whiskey. Top priority, top security, please use as many channels as possible."

Greg was standing close enough to the other man, and the glass panels were thick enough to drown out most of the traffic noise outside. Greg heard a quiet clicking sound coming from the receiver and then faint ringing as the call went through.

:

In the city of Groningen in the Netherlands, a young woman sat at her desk in her small student flat. She was supposedly working on an essay but mostly she was skyping with her friend in Amsterdam. Neither were able to sleep for university stress and too much coffee.

"Wacht even, ik heb een ander gesprek. Nee nee het is niets belangrijk. Het ene moment." Another call was flashing up on her screen. A call she'd never quite thought she'd get. She reached up to a shelf on her right and pulled out a thick manila envelope. She leafed through the papers inside until she found the right one and double checking the number on her screen, she quickly answered and then forwarded the incoming call. She clicked 'end call' and tucked the envelope away before turning her webcam on once more and resuming her conversation.

:

"Oh my god! Shut Up!" A pretty all American teenaged girl flicked her long blonde wavy hair and laughed into her neon pink covered phone. She paced the upstairs hallway of her parents' luxurious LA home, waiting for her younger sister to vacate the bathroom. The land line rang but it was probably for their mother so she ignored it in favour of gossiping with her girlfriend until . . .

"It's for you honey, some guy with an accent. Want me to take a message? You've got practice!"

"No Mom! What kind of accent? Forget it! I'll take it up here!" She padded through to her bedroom and picked up the cordless handset she kept beside the bed.

"Hello? . . . . Yes sir I've got it," she held the handset away and turned towards the door. "HANG UP THE PHONE MOM!" When she heard the click of the downstairs receiver being replaced, she hurriedly wrote a series of numbers on a tissue with a blunt eye liner she fished out of her pocket for lack of a pen. "Yes sir, right away sir," she said calmly, then began dialling the new set of digits.

:

"Bonsoir, ce n'est sociétés Monroe. Mme. Monroe bureau. Comment puis-je vous aider?" A secretary sitting in his private office with his feet up on his desk answered the call by the click of a mouse with a perfectly manicured fingertip and took a sip of his dirty martini. If he was going to be working this late on a weekend then he deserved a drink, he thought. He had been on his way out the door when Mme Monroe had called him back so he figured this was technically his own time, and had helped himself to his boss's cabinet. He was extra generous with the olives. He leaned back in his seat, gazing sorrowfully out of the window at the Parisian streets that stretched out into the distance. Answering boring phone calls was not his idea of fun. He wondered if his friends would still be out by the time his replacement arrived.

"En fait, vous avez besoin d'un rendez-vous pour parler avec Mme Monroe en ce moment," he continued. There was always one who thought they were above everyone else. Too important to bother with appointments.

"Non, non. Je suis désolé mais ce n'est pas possible que je vous ai expliqué. . ." He sat up straight, dropping his feet down to the floor and into her waiting grey Gucci lace ups.

"Mes appologies, oui, bien sûr, oui, oui. Tout de suite." Shit. Shit, he'd missed the code word. Ms Monroe would not be happy. He downed his drink quickly, vowing that this was the last one. He needed to stay on the ball if he was going to keep this job.

"Je suis désolé, oui bien sûr." Damn it, this was just embarrassing.

"Désolé."

Mme Monroe sat in the next room watching her ridiculous, incompetent, thieving assistant on her monitor with a glazed smile. He might be stupid beyond belief and make a mockery of his position on a daily basis but good lord he was a delight. She should have him stay late more often, especially if he was going to make a habit of sucking the olives from the cocktail stick like that. She answered the call when he finally put it through.

"Mme Monroe," she answered, irked at having her attention drawn away from her evening's entertainment. Her eyes widened and she straightened considerably. All her attention now focused on the voice feeding her instructions. She took down the numbers and did as she was told, passing the call on, quickly, well aware that she'd wasted enough time already. There would be consequences for this she was sure. Merde.

:

Mycroft listened to the clicks and tones as the call was passed slowly from line to line, country to country, snailing its way around the globe with superfluously human quiescence. He clenched his bloodied fist around the receiver, breathing determinedly. This was taking too long. It was all very well that this was one of the few phone boxes in central London that wasn't monitored, but not when you considered that the reason for this was that nobody would be foolish enough to attempt any covert conversation in the middle of Leicester bloody Square. Well it had been a safe enough assumption, until now. It was only a matter of time before someone picked them up on CCTV and time was something that they were quickly running out of. The politician watched the meter on the old style public telephone count down their change and started to panic. To any observing party it might look as though he were completely calm. But under his carefully constructed exterior, Mycroft Holmes was beginning to lose hope. They were here now, they'd come this far.

He pulled himself together and glanced down at his dishevelled companion. He'd thought of ditching the inspector in numerous ways but the other man was too far in now. If Mycroft left him somewhere it would be like putting him down himself. There wasn't much chance of either of them surviving the night any more. He shivered, noticing the other man's way of apprehensively biting his lip and frowned, swallowing his ever ill-timed swell. Damn it, of all his faults! Normally he had to work up to any advance, sexual or otherwise, at least when he wasn't representing her majesty and Great Britain. But as soon as he was bleeding from a firearm assault and had any unknown number of covert assassins after him, he goes all sexual predator on the one man he had vowed to leave well alone. This could not end well, if it got to end at all. The phone beeped loudly, startling the politician from his thoughts. Their credit was rapidly disappearing.

"Quick! We need more change." He balanced the receiver against his shoulder and used his good hand to frisk the startled D.I. for his wallet but upon flipping it open he found nothing. Cards a plenty, but no notes and only coppers in change. "Okay," he stated, beginning to panic. If they ran down to zero they would have to start the whole process again. "Go! Go now, and get more!" Gregory nodded, but then stopped.

"Where from?"

"I don't know! But I do suggest you figure it out quickly!"

"Right." Greg backed out, shoving the door open and stepping out into the cold night air. Despite the traffic fumes and the engulfing aroma of processed food from the steak house next to them, it still smelled better than the dank pissy stench in the phone box. He almost tripped over himself in his hurry and then realised that he had no idea where to go. He pushed his way into the busy restaurant. It was hot and loud, there were so many people. Greg rushed past the queue of customers waiting to be seated and made his way to the bar. He leaned over past a group of five suit clad business men. Why did people feel the need to eat steak at this time of night? It shouldn't be this busy! The bar staff were diligently working their way around the packed bar, not even allowing eye contact with anyone who wasn't next in line. Greg tried calling out, waving his wallet, but they ignored him even more pointedly and it was too loud for them to hear him when he resorted to the always cringe worthy, "POLICE!"

He gave up and made a bee line for the door. Change, change, where to get change . . . ? A stream of American tourists began to file in just as Greg reached for the door handle and he was stuck there, pressed back into the wall holding onto the door impatiently. A tall man who brought up the rear of the loud and excited procession nodded at him without making eye contact at all and in one smooth motion, tucked a twenty pound note into Greg's shirt pocket.

"Thanks m'good man!" he patted Greg's pocket twice before moving further into the bustling restaurant. Greg scowled and pulled out the twenty and was about to call back in indignant protest when it dawned on him that he now had money. He slipped out of the restaurant and moved off into the crowd. He had cash, someone would surely help him out.

"Excuse me, sorry I know this is a bit of a pain but I don't suppose you would have change of a twenty would you?" he pulled out his best smile at the group of three middle aged women dressed up to the nines in sequins and oversized jewellery. They ignored him completely and kept walking. Shit. He tried again only to be elbowed sharply out of the way by a nicely dressed man his own age. His older companion gasped at his rudeness and told him off but she didn't offer any assistance herself. He stared after them, wondering just how badly the evening's exploits had taken their toll on his appearance.

"You lookin' for change pal?" Greg whipped around and stared down at an old bearded man seated in the service doorway to the steak house. He had a blanket over his knees and a guitar propped up by his side.

"Um yeah actually, thanks very much." Greg ignored the fact that he would normally be demanding to see the busker's license, one which this particular gentleman was very unlikely to have. The old man smiled up at him with a dirty gapped grin.

"How much are ye needin'?"

"Just got a twenty sorry . . ." he held the note tightly waiting for the man to fish in his pockets, his fingerless gloves torn and fraying at his wrists.

"Right O." Another gap toothed smile beamed up at him as he reached out for the crisp note. Greg handed it over with pretend confidence, and watched the twenty disappear into the dark confines of the man's many pockets. He glanced back in the direction of Mycroft and thought about the quickly vanishing credit on the little green screen.

"Don't know if I've quite got a whole twenty mate," the man was now straining, knuckle deep in his trouser pockets, wriggling to get deeper.

"That's alright, just quickly will you? However much you've got,"

The whiskered man displayed his gaping grin once again and held up two crumpled and stained five pound notes. "Thanks pal, that's much appreciated that is," the tramp said brightly, blowing on the fingers of his free hand for warmth and shivering under what must have been at least three jackets.

Greg shook his head. "No, 'Change.'" He was met with a blank stare. "I need coins, for the payphone, I can't use that."

"The payphone? Nobody uses payphones anymore my friend, you need to get yourself a Smartphone. You get some good deals, doesn't have to cost a fortune and you can play games on them too." The two fivers were creeping back into his swathes of clothing.

"Look, I need change, you've got change," he said irritably, nodding down at the open guitar case laying at their feet with an evening's worth of silver collected at the bottom. Greg made out a few pound coins in amongst the tens and twenty pence pieces.

"Sorry mate, can't help you." The man shrugged.

Greg's chilled hands formed fists as he took in what was happening.

"I can't spare that, I need that to pay the rent," the busker continued, "People are more likely to give if they can see that other people already did, it's psychology and that. Nobody wants to give if they think they're the first."

Detective inspector Gregory Lestrade knelt down and started to scoop the coins up angrily. He couldn't waste any more time.

The little hairy man flew at him and let out a bone chilling yowl.

"THIEF!" He shrieked, loud enough that the passing herds of Londoners quickened their pace as they passed.

"WHAT?" Greg was fighting back, hunched slightly to defend against the onslaught of weak punches aimed at his gut. "I just gave you a TWENTY and you're not even going to give me a couple of quid?" The other man shouted again and suddenly a high vis vested MET officer was hauling the busker upright and Greg breathed a sigh of relief. Thank fuck.

"If you two don't pack in that racket right now, I will do you both for breach of the peace. You got that?" He gave the D.I.'s collar a good shake to reiterate his point and glowered at both of them with venomous distaste.

"Look, this is all a bit of a misunderstanding," Greg tried to explain, "I'm a D.I. and was actually in the process of dealing with this situation." A thought came to him suddenly. "I don't suppose you've got any spare change on you do you?"

The police officer smiled at him but it was far from friendly. "Get out of my sight you degenerate, this is your last warning." Greg found a finger being thrust under his nose with an angry scowl. Pulling himself up to his full height in response, he went to whip out his badge, professional indignation threatening to spill over his self-control. Fuck, bloody Sherlock, Fuck. No Badge. He continued to rummage despite knowing that he wasn't going to find it.

"Be gone when I come back this way in five minutes," the officer turned and hurried off toward the sound of angry shouts coming from a busy bar entrance further on.

"Well? Get tah fuck ye mentalist, I'm not getting locked up on account of you're sorry arse!" The busker gave him one last shove and seated himself back down in his doorway, gingerly beginning to tune his beat up guitar.

"What about my money?" Greg wasn't going to leave without his money no matter how pathetic it made him look. The other man shook his head and thrust the two fivers up into Greg's hands with a huff. Greg stared incredulously down at him but didn't know what else to do. He began to walk away - or at least he tried to. His foot caught in the handle of the guitar case and he landed hard on his knees. He swore and reached down to pick himself up only to see a crumpled five pound note get picked up by a sudden gust of wind and be swept away off into the road somewhere. Shit. He stared dejectedly at the lone faded blue note in his hand and stood up; he brushed off his knees and began to walk back towards the phone box.

The expression on Mycroft's face was obscured by the grease and dirty smears covering the glass of the phone box as Greg approached. He was thankful for that, as he was sure that the politician would be far from happy with his lack of progress. Mycroft's impatience was made clear enough as Greg neared. Mycroft's jolt of surprise upon realising that Greg was not stopping certainly gave the D.I. an idea of how desperate their situation had become. Greg nodded grimly and held up a hand in supplication. 'Two seconds!' he mouthed before hurrying across the road. He'd had an idea.

Greg knew he looked a state; he knew that he was covered in sweat despite the cold night. His hair was a mess from the soaking he'd gotten earlier while waiting outside 221B in the rain. His clothes were rumpled from his entanglement with the tall politician in the alleyway as well as his brief sprawl on the floor at Baker Street. He was sure he looked a complete mess and that no self-respecting bouncer was going to let him - a crumpled, dirty, blood spattered, 'degenerate' - into a casino. This was not a question of whether or not they would 'let' him though. They had change, he needed change. Simple. He was running out of time. Whatever happened, he would deal with it later.

He could see it, piles of silver twenty pence pieces spilling from the banks of slot machines. He marched determinedly across the road, pushing past throngs of people moving too slowly as the green man began to flash. He didn't stop at the entrance, just walked straight in. He'd heard that if you act confident and pretend that you're the boss then people treat you as such. It had never worked before, but never say never.

It didn't work. A hand reached out and caught his arm as he started towards the small time gamblers in the foyer. He didn't turn or fight, he just broke into a sprint, tearing away from the security guard's unsuspecting fingers. He tore through the brightly lit lobby, the noise and metallic hot smell invading his senses as he ran. He made towards the twenty pence slot machines and just as he saw more security guards talking into their radios and clocking him from the other side of the room, he heard an excited laugh and the sound of coins falling. A gleeful voice cried out - "Fifty Quid!"

He spun round to his right and saw a skinny girl in a tight black dress kneeling down and collecting her winnings in a white container.

"Oh my God, look at _that_!" he exclaimed, crouching down next to her and pointing up excitedly over to her right before snatching the newly filled tub from her distracted hands and bolting back the way he'd come.

Shit. He couldn't believe that had worked! Security were slow, or maybe it was just that the adrenaline was moving him faster than usual. He careered forwards, barrelling into a short but determined bouncer who fell to the ground, winding himself. Greg made for the door and had just tasted the cold night air when a strong hand once again gripped his arm. He felt his sleeve rip rather than hearing it as by this time the sound of the busy London traffic had filled his ears, replacing the babble of the crowds inside. He didn't stop though, he left part of his sleeve in the hands of the shouting bouncer. His heart beat wildly in his painfully tight chest at the inexplicable excitement at what he'd just done.

Greg dived across the road, darting in front of a speeding rickshaw bicycle, feeling the wind as it whipped past him. An angry bell rang as the bike went on its way. The enraged bouncer was more sensible and waited for a gap in the traffic, long enough at least for Greg to jump onto the curb, wrench open the phone box door and thrust the tub of change at a very stressed looking Mycroft. As soon as the change was safely in Mycroft's grip Greg bolted, letting the door shut behind him and ignoring the other man's startled exclamation. Greg ran. He'd almost reached Covent Garden when he was forced to stop for breath. Damn cigarette. His lungs were burning. He waited a few moments before heading back. He knew that a casino like that one would have decent enough CCTV, they wouldn't bother chasing anyone too far. By the time the police got hold of the tape, he and Mycroft would be long gone. And god only knew where!


	7. Chapter 7 - The Wreck

**Chapter Seven: The Wreck**

Nigel Regus sat at his desk in his large oak panelled office and ignored the icy fresh sea breeze as it billowed the drapes at the window. Sea air had never suited him well. If it hadn't been for his particularly determined political ideals, he would quite happily have stayed in Westminster and suffered the city fug with patriotic pride. Brighton had been the only real option. Close enough, and far enough away. He relaxed his grim set features and leaned back in his chair, shuffling his papers.

Perhaps it was time for a break. He'd been at this for hours, trying to monitor the situation, but getting nowhere. Only time would tell. Friends, no matter how distant, could still disappoint.

He poked a finger at the intercom button and took a deep breath,

"Liz, are you still playing with that damned cat? I need a drink, take her with you if you must . . ." He let go of the button and shifted in his leather chair. He checked his breath in his palm and cracked his knuckles.

After a moment a short brunette let herself into the room. She smiled and nodded to the bottle of bourbon she held precariously in her hand along with two glass tumblers of ice that clinked as she crossed the room. In the crook of her other arm squirmed a small black and white kitten.

A few sips later, he was feeling a lot more relaxed. Though whether that was the result of the bourbon, or the sight of his secretary sat on the floor playing with her cat, he honestly didn't know. Some new information had come in, but it seemed that his old friend had dropped off the radar for the time being. No matter, he'd be picked up eventually.

Liz stood and leaned on the edge of his desk in front of him, one elegantly stiletto clad foot resting on his chair. She placed the ridiculously small scrap of a cat in his lap and he forced a smile. He wasn't one for pets. An animal had to earn its keep. He swirled the ice in his glass absent-mindedly and watched his secretary laugh and take a retaliatory swipe at the kitten on his knee who'd just torn a ladder in the her stocking.

_Brrrrrrriiiiiiiiiing . . . . _

Right then, the phone rang. Its resounding tones seemed too loud and invasive in the quiet room. A tiny red light blinked into life on the monitor to his left. Who would been calling that number now? They paused, and then with the slightest of raised eyebrows, Regus patted the brunette on her thigh. "Down girl." he said with interest. Whether he was speaking to her, or the kitten in his lap didn't matter as they both hopped down and let him reach for his old fashioned curly corded receiver.

"Hello?"

Liz took the kitten back up into the crook of her arm and waited for orders.

"Mycroft bleeding Holmes, well well well. You're the last person I was expecting to hear from. How have you been you posh twat?" They couldn't have planned this! It was too much of a coincidence. Fancy Mycroft Holmes thinking of him now. Well too little too late. The man had gone too far.

Regus laughed, "Well I'm not exactly in the business any more my good man, you can afford a little _relaxed_ conversation when you're the one running things now can't you? Ha Ha Ha! Got my own little operation here now, not that much surveillance to worry about nowadays. Speaking of which, the old coded line eh? Now that's a blast from the past, having a little nostalgic moment were we?"

He laughed again but there was no evidence of mirth in his eyes. He watched Liz pet the cat softly behind its ears and decided to take it gently. If he played his cards right then they might just get what they wanted and more. He grit his teeth and forced his voice to remain jovial.

"Right, well of course. I hadn't forgotten, a favour's a favour. I'm all yours," As much as he'd love to give this pompous fool a piece of his mind, he knew that revenge would be all the sweeter if he just waited. He was prepared for this; his _friend_ would know. In the end, he would know who was responsible.

"I'll do what I can. You'll need to stay out of the way," he advised, "Head to the club, there shouldn't be too much attention there, they'll assume you're too clever to just amble up to your usual hangout. I take it you're all still pissing about in that dive?" He paused again, listening to the old familiar voice he used to know. Strange how you can know someone so well and then find out you don't know them at all.

"It shouldn't take you more than half an hour to get there if you get a move on. I'll keep my fingers crossed for you old friend, and scramble things as best I can from this end. I'll expect a big drink someday if this works by the way." He'd have that big drink now, thank you very much.

His forced smile was making his jaw ache.

"Good luck."

He placed the receiver back down in its cradle and after briefly checking his monitor, turned slowly in his chair to see Liz kneeling on the plush carpet across the room with the cat by her side. She'd kicked off her black stilettos and was alternately curling the toes of each stocking clad foot. The back of her blouse was wrinkled slightly where she'd raised her arm up holding a headset with earphones to her left ear. Her other hand was busy tapping out messages on her phone. She finished what she was doing and turned to face him, dropping the headset to the floor. She rolled her eyes at his questioning expression but then grinned and gave him an overly animated diver's 'A-Okay'.

"Clever girl."

He turned back to his papers and left his companions playing on the carpet as he made the necessary arrangements. Necessary being the appropriate word. This was not how he'd have liked things to turn out, but Mycroft Holmes would be a fool to think he could get away with something like this. He would find the letter. Destroy it, and destroy the man responsible in the process.

**Author's Note: Okay, I know that was a short chapter and that it won't really make much sense at this point but hang on in there – it will all become clear . . . I hope. Thanks again for reading, you guys are the best! **


	8. Chapter 8 - Ingress

**Chapter Eight: Ingress**

John's arse was now completely numb despite him getting up every few minutes to stretch his legs. It had helped the first few times but now it seemed that the cold had seeped into his bones. He watched Sherlock watching the crowd and just managed to stop himself asking how much longer they had to stay. He knew they only had the one lead; they were there for as long as it took.

The sky had cleared somewhat, and even in the centre of the capital, with its notorious light pollution, stars could be seen between the patches of cloud. They shone from the sky like brightly gleaming exotic matter clustered in the atmosphere. The colourfully lit fountain behind them turned Sherlock's pale face first blue and then purple as he stood stiffly to make another sweep of the crowd. So far nobody fitting the description in the note had been seen.

The doctor's mind wondered and as had become usual when he let it, his thoughts and attention returned to Sherlock. John watched absently as the detective's breath steamed in front of his pale face. He found himself almost hypnotized as each steady cloud of breath billowed like the sails of a ship. John suddenly noted that the ships had stopped and that Sherlock's breath had been held for a few moments. The detective's teeth were gritted and he was focussed completely on the middle of the square. John followed his eye line, and it didn't take him long to see what had caught his attention. For sure enough, there in the middle of the square standing not too far from them at all, was a woman with dark brown hair and a back pack.

"It must be her Sherlock!" John hissed, "What do we do?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just kept his eyes locked on the woman, his glove covered fingers drumming out a rhythm on the cold stone between them. As they watched, she took out her phone from her pocket and tapped the screen, her face suddenly becoming illuminated in bright swirling colours. All but a few of the crowd of tourists had dissipated, obviously being effected by the cold and clever enough not to hang around too long. Sherlock and John weren't so close that they'd be noticed, but were certainly the only ones close enough to hear the sounds coming from the woman's phone. Over the icy breeze, although they had to strain, both men clearly heard a computer generated female voice with an American accent resonating from the small device.

"_Acquiring Position. - - - Lock On Established. - - - Downloading Latest Intel Package."_

She pulled an earpiece from her pocket and hooked it into place instantly making any further sounds inaudible to the two unnoticed men to her right. The brunette's face was pensive and all her attention was focused on the small screen in her hand. It glowed bright green and she began to tap quickly, occasionally glancing up at Nelson's Column or at the group of skater kids up by the road. Sherlock began to mutter under his breath. He was clearly as clueless as John as to what exactly they were witnessing.

"What intel package? Why here?" Sherlock scowled and his eyes flickered over the square then up to the statue and rested once again on the woman. John shrugged his stiff shoulders and peered closer.

"Wait Sherlock, what's that?" A tiny red light could be seen just at the woman's side and John had thought it was a laser sight until he'd noted that it was perfectly still. The light must be coming from _her_ then. As he and the detective strained to see better, they saw that the light was coming from inside the backpack where she hadn't bothered to close the zips all the way. A black cable trailed out from the gap and connected with the device in her hand.

"Sherlock . . .Sherlock is that what I think it is?" John was breathing hard and leaning right over gripping the detective's shoulder and hissing in his ear.

"I can't tell from here!" Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated.

"Should we approach her? Th-The note said 'look for' didn't it? Does that mean say hi or just . . . just observe?"

"_I don't know!_" Sherlock growled back at him and John took the hint to shut up. They both continued to watch in silence until the green reflected on the woman's face suddenly turned blue and her pensive expression was replaced with a relieved smile. She exhaled audibly and Sherlock frowned, shaking his head and muttering about having to get closer. Suddenly the screen began to flash and she tapped at it before starting to speak into the hands free set.

"Hi, where are you? . . . .There's no-one around here, I just took Nelson! . . . . . No more resistance as yet, at this end at least . . . . . I'm going to recharge and deploy and I've got a quick job to do then I'll join you there, Viva le Resistance. Bye"

"Deploy? Deploy? She said deploy!" John was certain now - the wire attached to her phone was connected to a bomb which she was planning on setting off . . . soon. Sherlock was frowning and gripping John's wrist in an attempt to keep him quiet.

"I don't know yet, why would she be here? Why deploy a bomb _here_?"

John was stumped by Sherlock's question but he didn't have time to ponder for long. Suddenly the woman was off and moving up towards the stairs behind them. Sherlock practically leapt off the cold stone to stop John running after her. "Not here, we can't approach her out in public, we'll have to be discreet!" The woman tugged her earpiece out and the American accent could clearly be heard again.

"_Target Acquired – 240 meters." _

She jogged up the steps then turned round at the top to look out over the square. Sherlock whipped them round and began strolling slowly in the other direction but when he hazarded a glance back up at her, she was gone. He swore angrily under his breath.

"She can't have gone far!" John was sprinting up the steps after her with Sherlock close behind. She was just in view at the corner of the National Gallery. When she saw them coming she turned and ran. The detective raced forward and followed her round the side of the building and when John reached them, panting heavily, he saw that Sherlock had caught her. Her dark hair had fallen across her face but he could see her furious expression. She twisted and fought against Sherlock's grip on her wrists but he held on tight.

"What the fuck are you doing? GET OFF ME!" she shrieked angrily.

"Tell us what you're planning!" Sherlock hissed back at her. She let out a hollow laugh and dropped her weight and jerked her fists away from the consulting detective. She fell unceremoniously to the ground and stopped there staring up at them with determined resolution.

"Where are you planting the bomb?" John demanded using his most authoritative military growl. "Why are you here, who are you working for?"

The angry laugh that had been about to follow died on her lips and she stared at them with a confusion that rivalled their own.

"You're not Enlightened? I thought you were Enlightened!"

Sherlock caught John's eye then they both stared down at her. Great, some crazy cult was the last thing they needed.

"What are you talking about? Tell us about the bomb!" John dropped down so that he squatted next to her.

"There is no _bomb_ you fucking idiots!" she glowered. "I'm not _working_ for anyone!" She laughed again but this time she didn't seem angry, she seemed almost scared. "It's a game, just a game!" She went to reach into her pocket but John was too quick for her.

Before he'd even reached a conscious decision to move, his hand had shot out and wrenched the phone out of her grip.

"-_Hey!_ -" she started. But the wire had been pulled out and a whirring beeping sound was coming from the glowing device. She must have set it off. John stared horror struck at the screen in his hand and made a split second decision.

"Sherlock! Run!" John launched himself at the woman, knocking her onto her front. He threw himself face down over her and her bomb filled back pack, making sure that he would take the worst of the blast. He didn't hear the woman's indignant protests because his heart was hammering so loud in his ears. Despite the adrenaline, he was completely calm. His army training had kicked in even after all this time. There was no point in panicking, getting the job done was all that mattered. At least he would have saved Sherlock . . . . Sherlock? Sherlock hadn't run away. He hadn't gone anywhere. John could see the toes of the other man's leather dress shoes out of the corner of his eye. Why wasn't he getting the hell out of there? John lifted his head.

Sherlock was towering over him, looking down in mild amusement. "Stand up John. There is no bomb." He helped John shakily to his feet. "It's a game John. She's telling the truth." The computerized voice sounded again,

"_Downloading latest intel package . . . Welcome back! XM reserves 32%_"

John looked at the screen, at the GPS map of Trafalgar Square and the surrounding area, and the glowing green and blue patches and the energy bar at the top with a level indicator in the corner sitting at level 8. He felt cold realization settling in his gut.

"What's in the backpack?" John demanded, but he knew this wasn't going anywhere. Sherlock had begun to pace back and forth behind him and he knew they'd hit a dead end.

"Battery pack!" she threw at him, "Now who the fuck do you think you are?"

"If you've got nothing to hide, why did you run?" John knew the answer before he'd finished the question.

"Because two idiot creeps were following me!" She had lost her angry tone and John could see that she was trembling slightly. Shit. Sherlock was already marching off back towards the square.

"Sorry. So so sorry," he said awkwardly, offering a hand to help her up. She refused it and scrambled up by herself. She levelled a look of pure disdain at John before snatching back her phone, straightening her coat and marching back round to the gallery entrance.

"Hurry up John!" Sherlock called back at him, "We've probably missed her by now!"

John swallowed, trying to ignore the part of himself he'd just left open for the world to see. He'd been ready, so ready to just . . . he suppressed these thoughts quickly. He jogged to the detective's side and they both peered out over the square, at the traffic that surrounded it and the brightly lit fountains. The place was now deserted. How could they have mucked up so spectacularly? Sherlock's face was drawn, his hands set on the stone barrier before him. He slammed a clenched fists down suddenly and snarled at John.

"Something's not right, I've missed something!" He pulled at his dark curls in frustration.

"You can't be everywhere at once. It's not your fault. We couldn't have known it was a game." John tried to comfort him.

Sherlock turned to glare at him but he stopped short suddenly, eyes wide. He raised his hands slowly to gesture and let out a shuddering gasp.

"It WAS a game, it IS a game. She was telling the truth! But not all of the truth! I _knew_ there was more to it than that." He turned suddenly towards the entrance to the National Gallery where they'd last seen the woman seat herself on the steps. She wasn't there any more though. No, now she was at the far end of the building and approaching a sleek black car. Its back left passenger door was pushed open to receive her. Both men ran, hearts pounding in their ears, towards the woman and the car, but they were too late.

"Wait!" Sherlock shouted out. But when they arrived at the curb the car had already pulled away and was speeding up St Martin's Place. "Damn!"

John was panting hard, bent over with his hands resting on his knees. He shook his head trying to catch up with the detective's racing thoughts as they stood on the dark corner.

"What's . . . who, was that?" John managed to straighten slightly and coughed out the words.

"Mycroft's car." Sherlock breathed. "Why use Mycroft's car? They must know that we know . . . it was too much to hope that they'd stay trained on Baker Street. If using Mycroft's car is some sort of a warning to back off, a nod to the fact that they know that we know, then who was that girl? If she had information for us then we missed it. Or did we?" He was frowning away in the direction the car had gone. Then his whole body became stiff and he stood stock still. He stared straight ahead, eyes glazed. His hands were held up before him and his fingertips were twitching slightly. John knew there was no point in trying to interrupt Sherlock when he was desperately trawling through his mind palace, but now? Really? Passers-by were giving them strange looks and John was losing patience.

"Sherlock! We need to move? We're getting in the way." A group of loud drunk men in their twenties were jostling their way past and John had to literally drag Sherlock back out of the way before one of them was knocked out into the traffic. The detective moved suddenly, his hands coming up to rest at the back of his head. He stretched and grinned down at his doctor who was frustratedly awaiting ingress of the explanation.

"Well?" John asked "What is it?"

Sherlock rocked back on his heels. "The door was pushed open before the woman reached the car, someone was in the back waiting for her. Someone with rather delicate feminine hands, at least the one hand that was visible in the light from the street lamps. A brunette, judging by her skin tone and choice of jewellery and chosen nail polish colour."

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "You can tell all that from a split second's view of a hand? In the dark? From 40 feet?" He couldn't help shaking his head. He'd been surprised and impressed with Sherlock's amazing abilities pretty much constantly in the time that they'd known each other, but this took the biscuit. This took the custard crème.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's called close trained eidetic memory. It helps when there's adrenaline. It means I can go back and see details I missed the first time. Doesn't always work, but this time . . . this time," He grinned again and took a half skip-step in the direction the car had gone.

"What did you see the second time round? Who is it?" John could feel his heart still beating loudly in his chest even though his lungs had stopped burning and he was breathing normally again.

"Let's just say, her other hand was still clamped tightly onto her blackberry." Sherlock turned away from the wide eyed doctor and started to walk back down in the direction of Charing Cross tube station. "Come on John! We're in."


	9. Chapter 9 - Shovel All The Coal In

**Chapter Nine: Shovel All The Coal In**

It was strange being quiet together, strange and nice. It was a change from either frantically groping against a wall or verbally berating each other. When Greg had doubled back and jogged to the hustling, bustling junction where he had left the elder Holmes, he had been surprised to find the phone box empty. He had kept jogging along not knowing what to do and beginning to panic. What if an intimidating black car had pulled up and dragged Mycroft inside? What if he had already bled out on the cold plastic covered back seat? He'd stopped and stared around wildly, taking in the once familiar lights and sounds which had now taken on a far more sinister glare.

A quick glance at the entrance to the casino had spurred him on however. It would be stupid to get himself arrested now, even stupider than leaving the politician alone in the first place. He had cursed himself and kept jogging.

A sharp whistle pierced the air just as he had passed Leicester Square Station and he had turned to see the blank faced politician leaning nonchalantly against the white tiles at the station entrance. Mycroft had already bought their tickets and now here they were, deep underground and sat together on a busy platform, waiting to take the Piccadilly line westward. Although Greg's mind buzzed with unanswered questions, he kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to watch Mycroft's thumb and forefinger toy with the handle of his umbrella. When Greg realised that Mycroft's attention was no longer solely on the handle, but actually on the D.I. himself, he cringed. Greg looked up, startled slightly by the close and unexpected eye contact. He dropped the pink ticket Mycroft had given him and leaned down, embarrassed, to pick it up. Mycroft was watching him with the quirk of a smile as he straightened again.

"Why do we need these anyway? I've got my Oyster card right here and I don't for one minute believe that you're in the habit of paying for public transport," Greg complained.

"Your Oyster card would be tracked within seconds. Not an option. And what, do you think I have some magical Jedi hand gesture which allows me free trips on the tube?" The politician glowered at him.

Greg immediately regretted starting the conversation at all. "No, but we're not exactly being inconspicuous here are we, those ticket booths are all covered by CCTV. I should know, I've spent more time that I'd care to remember trawling though hours of tube footage. There's a camera right there, look-" He pointed beside the lit up time display to where a white camera was pointed directly at them.

"I'll admit it was a bit of a risk taking the train but to be perfectly honest I quite like the underground, and as it happens - that camera isn't connected. It's just there to warn against petty theft," Mycroft responded dryly.

Greg looked back up at the camera, his skin prickling slightly despite a gust of warm air blustering past. He didn't think he wanted to know how Mycroft knew that. Alright he did, but another look at the politician's practised expression of controlled smugness, and he decided not to ask.

A few more moments passed in silence and Greg found himself perched on the edge of the metal bench, determinedly staring at the small section of track he could see past the people standing at the platform's edge. Just as another gust of warm air rushed through the tunnel, Mycroft stood up and Greg saw the lights of the train approaching slowly through the dark. His eye was drawn back to the track when he thought he saw something move, and sure enough a tiny tube mouse darted back under the line and vanished.

They boarded the train and sat down near the door. After a few stops, the carriage was empty except for a couple making out at the other end and a tall angry looking woman in a long coat who stood at the central doors despite there being plenty of seats. The train was too warm and the atmosphere seemed to thicken the longer they sat in silence, so as the train picked up speed in the dark tunnel outside, Greg once again attempted conversation.

"So, was there enough change?"

"Yes, thank you Gregory."

". . . . . took some getting, you have no idea hehe . ."

" . . I think I can imagine." Mycroft was certainly not making this easy for him. Greg would surely have given up, certain that the other man was making his displeasure at his present company clear, but he didn't. He didn't because Mycroft kept looking at him, almost encouraging him to continue talking with his lingering gaze and all the while giving Greg absolutely nothing to work with. The man was infuriating.

Greg shook his head and tried a different tactic, "So who were you calling?"

The almost playful smile in the politician's eyes was dropped and replaced with a cold stare, aimed at his own reflection in the dark glass opposite. He pursed his lips and coughed lightly before replying.

"An old friend," Mycroft caught Greg's steely determined frown. Short answers were not going to work anymore. "A last resort," he continued, ". . . I'm unsure how much information is necessary for you to have. In short, my contact in Brighton is the least likely of anyone able to assist, to have been compromised already. All my people, they didn't know I knew, they probably didn't know themselves, but I could tell what was going on. This man's loyalty to queen and country goes beyond simple blind patriotism. He is not a man to switch sides. Still it was a risk. Once one link in the chain starts to rust . . . Anyway, it was take this risk, or go underground."

"So you did both," Greg sniggered and waved a hand at their current location, then dropped his hand to his knee and grimaced, obviously embarrassed at having made the comment. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but couldn't help the small smile from creeping onto his face as Greg continued to stare at the floor, turning red as he berated himself internally.

Mycroft sighed. Why was everything the D.I. said and did, so achingly adorable? It was becoming harder and harder to ignore the flutter of need he felt when the other man's eyes locked with his, or when he fumbled his words. Just adorable. Against his better judgement, Mycroft shifted forwards and reached a hand out to straighten his ruffled accomplice's shirt collar. There really wasn't much point; they were both in an irreparable state. They would surely have to find something else to wear when they reached the office. He didn't think that he owned anything that would serve as a disguise, but the D.I. at least could wear something slightly more tasteful than his present attire. No, there was no point in smoothing his collar, no point at all - and yet his hand kept moving. He brushed the blood spots, touched the opened top button, and followed the previously crisp collar to the back, trying to fold it more neatly into place.

It took Greg only the briefest of moments' thought to comprehend that this was happening again. Even if his millisecond's worth of internal debate had registered, it probably wouldn't have won out over his ever recalcitrant physical desire. Greg let out a small grunt and was on Mycroft in a flash. He had pushed the politician back in his seat with the force of his kiss and was practically straddling him in his attempt to get closer. Mycroft's mouth had dropped open in surprise and now Greg was pushing his tongue inside.

Both Greg's hands were running through Mycroft's hair, and he was biting his lower lip. Mycroft let out a deep growl and began to bite back, arching when Greg's hands dropped to run over his chest then back to hold each side of his face.

They heard Mycroft's umbrella slide and then clatter to the floor but neither man cared enough to pause as they continued to determinedly explore each other through their clothes.

When Lestrade pulled back panting and staring with singular unadulterated heat into Mycroft's eyes, the politician made a decision. Enough trying to fight this. If the detective was actually up for this then why in the world shouldn't he put aside his professional mediocrity and partake in what was being offered? This would probably be his last chance, considering the way the night was going. Why give up the opportunity to fuck the silver fox right here and now if he wasn't going to live to see the dawn?

Greg's hip was pressed into the hard arm rest that separated their seats so Mycroft shifted slightly, sliding down a little and pulling Lestrade properly onto him. This time he was literally straddling the politician, actually sitting on his lap. God this was ridiculous, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Mycroft had his hands up and under Greg's coat, fingers stroking and digging into his back and Greg dropped his head to kiss and taste the skin at the side of the other man's neck. The Talisker must still have been in full effect as a pain suppressant because both Mycroft's hands were equally eager in their desperate movements over Greg's skin, and the little breathy sounds seemed not to be the result of any painful stimulus. The rush of sexual energy that coursed through the D.I. was unbelievable. It was like being a teenager again, being completely at his physical self's mercy and not caring one iota.

He pressed himself closer, crotch first, into the other man and keened as Mycroft met him deliciously. He let out a shuddering "F..fuck." and felt the other man smile into their kiss.

The sound of obvious and indignant coughing brought them from their reverie and they looked up to see the woman with the sour face who'd been glowering intently at the central doors as they'd boarded, now focusing all her ardent outrage at their end of the coach. The young couple at the other end had separated themselves from each other and were also watching with mild interest as the woman squared her shoulders and turned to face them fully. Her hand was lodged determinedly on her hip and she raised a disgusted eyebrow at them as though waiting for some kind of an apology. Mycroft had turned a shade of pink that Greg feared was not the result of their passionate endeavours. Greg glared back at the glaring woman and wondered if she had been equally offended by the ministrations of the young people to their right. Something told him that this was unlikely to have been the case; that no she had not looked at the teenagers with the same all-consuming hatred that she was levelling at them now. Something told him that it was not that they were older than the kids at the other end. Nor that despite their clothes being rumpled and dirty, they were clearly expensive, and were therefore closer to this woman's own social class. No, it wasn't that at all. Indignation and pure disdain welled up inside the Greg and he was about to tell this woman exactly what he thought of her and her misplaced sense of impropriety when to his surprise, Mycroft responded first.

Mycroft Holmes gave a light cough, forgetting is shirt sling entirely, flipped up the middle finger of his right hand and held it up. His expression had returned to one of cold obduracy, his whole person exuding his well-practised aura of gravity. Out of the corner of his eye Greg caught the woman's gaping mouth and flushed cheeks as she blinked at them stupidly. Then Mycroft dragged him back down to once again ravage his mouth.

The woman exited the train at the next station as did the young couple from the other end of the coach. They took their time though, walking up to the central doors and giving Greg and Mycroft the world's biggest grins as they departed. The doors slid closed once more and the politician and the D.I. had the coach to themselves.

"That was mad, you're mad," Greg mumbled into the skin beneath Mycroft's ear between kissing and nipping gently at the other man's sensitive skin.

The only reply he received was a low rumbling "Hmmmmm," and Mycroft let his head rest back, mouth opening slightly as he gazed at the man on his lap, his pupils completely blown.

Mycroft stroked tantalizingly up Greg's thighs, moving ever closer to his unabashed erection and god, he wanted to touch it. He wanted so badly to touch it, but watching the squirming D.I. want him to touch it too was unbelievably attractive. Lestrade rocked his hips each time Mycroft's hands came fractionally closer to his painfully obvious hard on, seemingly out with his control. It was like heaven to watch.

Time seemed to have stopped and they were both lost to each other's heat. Mycroft's hands found their way up to rake through the D.I.'s short hair which had him breathless and arching up. Mycroft licked a sinful line up Greg's throat, determined hands now gripping tightly to his hips, digging his fingers in slightly. He let out a completely involuntary sound and was back down and attacking Mycroft's exposed neck, sucking and biting his skin desperately.

A rush of cold air swept over them as the doors to their carriage opened with a loudspeaker announcer informing them that they had reached the end of the line. Shit. Mycroft was shaking slightly and gripping Greg's wrist where his fingers were raised and stroking the side of his neck. "Come on," he said at last, "we have to go. We've come too far. We'll have to walk back." Mycroft watched as Greg sat back, his eyes still trained on the politician's kiss pinked lips, his breath ragged. Greg ran a hand over his chin as if to shake himself awake and stood up. He glanced at Mycroft as he adjusted himself in his trousers. Then unable to hide his smile, he brushed past the now standing politician and exited the train. Mycroft coughed lightly, turning away to adjust his own restrictive clothing with far more discretion, and followed behind.

They had to back track once out of the station, hurrying along residential roads that Greg didn't recognize at all. Mycroft was deliberately keeping their pace so that when the odd car sped past, they were always in the shadow between lamp-posts or hidden by the tall trees in the gardens of the bigger houses. Greg let himself be lead along, keeping a few paces between them as he tried to control is reeling thoughts. He tried to concentrate on where they were and where they were going but his mind wouldn't stop supplying images of Mycroft's heated gaze, the feeling of his fingers brushing the skin of his neck, and the pulsating fire behind his kiss . . . He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he watched the other man walking on ahead.

"Come along Gregory," Mycroft hissed from the next corner. He'd stopped at the back of some rich family home and was bent slightly and peering through a sparse privet hedge. They were at the back of the building and Greg could see a dim light in an upstairs window that was probably the stairway or landing. Mycroft pointed through the small hole in the hedge to where the long garden stretched all the way up to the house. A greenhouse at the far end reflected the orange street lights from the road and what was most likely a climbing frame or swing set, though it was hard to make out in the gloom.

"The family will most likely be asleep," Mycroft stated, "We might not get a better chance than this."

Before Greg could question what in the world the other man was talking about, Mycroft had pushed himself up onto the small stone wall that the hedge grew from and was disappearing, with a bristle of branches, through the hole and into the garden. Greg followed. He'd been through too much tonight to start worrying about trespassing. He followed Mycroft as he strode over the lawn and then stopped at the washing line. Mycroft pulled down a red chequered, plaid shirt that looked enormous, and handed it to the detective who took it with a nod of recognition.

"A disguise!" he acknowledged with a grin, but then he took another look at the still damp garment in his hand. "We're trying _not_ to draw attention to ourselves, correct?" Greg asked with indignation.

The politician didn't turn to face him, just gave a grunt in the affirmative and kept going.

"Right, then why are you asking me to wear the most obviously noticeable shirt on the line?" Greg pointed out.

Mycroft huffed and pulled a few more items down as he began to walk back towards the waiting D.I.

"Looking like we're trying to hide is probably the worst thing we could do right now detective, but if you'd feel more comfortable I will endeavour to find something more suited to the New Scotland Yard Ninja Stealth Force," Mycroft scowled snidely.

When his eyes met Greg's however he couldn't suppress a short snort of laughter. The detective inspector had donned the awful shirt over his coat and was struggling to fasten the buttons, the sleeves kept slipping down over his hands.

Greg glared up at his partner in crime and stopped, plaid clad hand shooting up to cover his open mouth. Mycroft had removed his shirt-sling, his long navy herringbone coat, and his suit jacket, and was trying to squeeze himself into a far too small denim jacket that looked as though it had come straight from the mid-nineties. Greg's body shook, his face although mostly in shadow now had turned a deep red to match his shirt and he was doubled over, hands on his knees in stitches with barely contained bouts of mirth.

Mycroft looked at the stretched material and at the hyperventilating man before him and succumbed, descending into his own hilarity. Amazingly, both men managed to remain mostly quiet.

Greg staggered forward and tried to tug the denim sleeves upwards behind Mycroft's back but to no avail. The other man hissed in pain and Greg dropped his arm "Sorry, sorry, are you alright?"

"Yes, don't worry, it just stings now," Mycroft responded. They giggled helplessly and Mycroft reached back, took hold of a plaid sleeve with his jean trapped hand and turned to face Greg. They grinned at each other finally able to calm down enough, their breath still coming quickly. The inspector lifted his arm so that the politician could roll up the length of material. Cool fingers gently touched Greg's wrist and then forearm. It felt like tiny tingling shots of electricity against his skin.

"Perhaps we should swap?" Greg said the first thing that came to mind in an attempt to distract himself from the rapidly and inexplicably returning pressure in his trousers. It wasn't that he was small, or that Mycroft was big, just that their differences might make them at least a little more suited to each other's unfortunate choice of disguise. Mycroft stopped and held Greg's now exposed wrist delicately,

"Perhaps we should," he conceded. He let go of Greg's wrist but didn't step away, didn't even remove his denim jacket which now hung from his right arm having been shrugged off by his left. In fact, he took a small step closer and began to slowly unfasten the plaid shirt's plastic buttons.

Greg's breath hitched; Mycroft had opened the shirt but hadn't stopped there, this time opening the detective's coat also and starting on the buttons of the dirty white shirt underneath. Greg held his breath, determinedly feeling every slight touch until finally Mycroft had unfastened the top four or five buttons and then touched his splayed fingers to the detective's bared chest.

Greg let out a shuddered breath and reached up to touch him, but the politician's palm pressed into him pushing him back. He stumbled and his arms flew back to steady himself connecting with the smooth cold glass of the greenhouse. Immediately upon righting himself, he felt Mycroft pressed flush against him. Their lips met once again but this time Mycroft's hand was pressed unequivocally to the taught fabric at the front of Greg's trousers. Greg shuddered at the sudden contact and let out a lewd sound into the other man's mouth.

"Oh fuck . . This is getting to be ridiculous!" Greg panted.

The other man continued to stroke him through his trousers and raised a deft eyebrow,

"Agreed," he replied, and then slightly breathlessly "Would you like me to stop Gregory?"

"Christ no!" Greg growled out in response and then, finally finding his footing amongst the potted plants at their feet, flipped them round so that now Mycroft was backed into the glass and Greg was kneading handfuls of the politician's arse, and dry humping the fuck out of his clearly defined erection.

The D.I. sank to his knees and heard a shaky, "Oh good Lord," from above him as he mouthed the tented fabric and wondered what the fuck he was doing. This was Mycroft bleeding Holmes, the British Government himself. How had this happened? Not even twelve hours ago he had hated this man with a vengeance. He'd been at the yard having a disappointing lunch in his office with the news on in the background. The foreign minister had been being interrogated at a press conference, when Greg had spotted Mycroft Holmes's sour presence, stoically ominous in the background; he had changed the channel. Now here he was, kneeling at the man's feet, struggling with shaking hands to open the man's trousers. Fucking hell. A lot could change in a day.

Mycroft was clearly becoming impatient. Greg was taking too long but the politician was not helping by thrusting forwards. Greg was trying to unfasten the man's belt but each time his fingers gripped the expensive leather, the strong hands above him would rake through his hair and press him in closer. Eventually, when Greg teasingly concentrated his attention on pressing his face into the base of the Paul Smith covered member and humming out his appreciation, Mycroft decided he couldn't take much more. He let his head rest back against the icy glass at his back and closed his eyes. Breathing steadily through his nose, he reached down and began to unfasten his belt himself. He slipped the end through the metal buckle, pulled it back to release it and tugged it free.

Greg stared up at him with excited trepidation. Then he was back to mouthing his way in, salivating into his grey suit trousers. He opened them hurriedly and let them drop just enough to comfortably let his cock spring free.

For a split second Mycroft regretted it all. His face flushed and he felt a cold sweat break out all over his back and chest with embarrassment, and he was taken over briefly by the person he had spent his entire professional career perfecting. He felt deep self-loathing, and he was wracked with the realization that he was entirely responsible for everything. This was over in a bare moment however, because when Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was presented with his thick hard cock he sank down onto it and Mycroft found himself engulfed completely by the other man's hot wet mouth. Pleasure exploded in heated waves through his abdomen and he swore. It was supposed to be under his breath but it just came out as a high pitched squeak. He couldn't have cared less in that moment though. All his fears from mere seconds ago had melted away under the sinfully hot and talented tongue of the silver haired man slowly sucking his way back to Mycroft's sensitive tip.

"Oh Jesus, oh fuck." It didn't matter anymore that his life was in danger, that by morning he would most likely be weighted down at the bottom of the Thames, that his career would be over no matter what happened. Nothing mattered, because Lestrade was licking stripes of wet heat from just beneath the sensitive glans at the top of his shaft up over his head and swirling over the tip again and again and again. Christ, Christ it had been so long. Mycroft forced himself to look down, vowing that if he survived tonight he would definitely want to remember the sight that awaited him. He peered down through the gloom and was met by Lestrade's wide, unflinching and disastrously sexy dark eyes. His lips were stretched wide, his mouth completely filled by the hard flesh of Mycroft's cock and as Mycroft stared and experimentally pushed himself that little bit further in, Lestrade groaned and a stream of saliva escaped his mouth and ran down the side of his chin. It was beautiful.

Greg sucked back to the tip and then began to bob up and down, eliciting a series of loud and lascivious moans from the politician's parted lips. They were probably too loud, considering their current location, but if Mycroft was feeling as exceptionally aroused as Greg was, he really couldn't blame the other man for forgetting that it was the middle of the night and they were in some random family's back garden.

Light streamed from a ground floor window suddenly and both men froze. The sound of a key turning in the back door had both of them scrambling for their discarded items of newly acquired clothing, Mycroft tucked himself back in, grabbed his umbrella, and they ran.

Mycroft could really move when he needed to, Greg observed as they crossed the lawn like frightened rabbits and ducked back through the hole in the hedge and out onto the street. They must have ducked out of view just in time because no angry shouts or chasing footsteps followed them as they hurriedly helped each other into their disguises.

When they were about as presentable as they thought they could manage in such circumstances, they began once more to head in the direction of their missed tube stop. This time was a little different though. Instead of tearing after a striding politician, Greg found himself walking side by side with the tall and sexily dishevelled Mycroft, who was . . . Was he? Yes . . . he was reaching out and gingerly touching Greg's hand. A spark shot up Greg's arm and he felt goose bumps spread over his skin. He curled his fingers around Mycroft's and gave a little cough, clearing his throat and then giving the other man a crooked smile.

They walked this way for a while longer, still dodging from shadow to shadow when they spied a car moving too slowly or with suspiciously tinted windows. It felt strange to Greg to be wearing denim for a start, but then to be strolling hand in hand with this practically unrecognisable man? Of course he still looked like Mycroft Holmes, with his determined eyes, perfectly groomed strawberry-blonde hair, and neat, expensive leather shoes. But the change in him was definite. Not just because of the horribly unflattering plaid shirt, but there was something different in the way he held himself. He caught Greg looking at him out of the corner of his eye and in typical Holmes fashion, rolled his eyes. But Greg could also make out the hint of colour in his cheeks when they passed beneath a street lamp and the beginnings of a quickly masked smile.

They were passing larger buildings now, with better security and through barbarous black railings Greg could see the buildings set a lot farther back from the road. The trees were taller, the pavements cleaner and they passed one or two proper security staffed entrances with little booths and automatic barriers. More than a few uniformed security guards glared at them as they passed, stance and expression telling them quite clearly that they should keep moving or else. Greg felt a little rush of excitement in his gut as he thought of how if he wanted to, Mycroft could probably just flash a badge and walk straight past any of them. He had never been remotely impressed by Mycroft's little power displays before, in fact he had actively disapproved of anyone being that much of a dick about the power they held . . . But being the one who's hand Mycroft was holding, being the one who had damp muddy knees, and could still taste the politician on his tongue, well, that power felt pretty damned good, actually.


	10. Chapter 10 - The Busker & The Toothpaste

**Chapter Ten: The Busker And The Toothpaste**

Outside Charing Cross Station, John and Sherlock stood huddled closely together beneath the awning of a magazine stall. They could feel the benefit of the stall vendor's small electric heater but it wasn't making that much of a difference. John rubbed his hands together and tried to stop his teeth from chattering. He felt guilty for still wearing Sherlock's scarf but the consulting detective didn't look like the biting wind was bothering him at all. He was concentrating, totally engrossed, staring down at his brother's phone, frustratedly trying to unlock it. Despite the phone being modern and probably having been souped up with the latest security software, Mycroft still preferred a simple four digit pass code. Perhaps this one wasn't quite so simple however. Mycroft obviously thought Sherlock could work it out, or he'd have told him the code when handing over the phone. But Sherlock had been glued to it for a solid ten minutes now and was beginning to grunt and exhale in exasperation each time he had to blink the screen off and on again to get another three tries. John would have to ask Mycroft for password security tips for his laptop when this was over. The man was obviously better at picking them than he was.

"Right," Sherlock shoved the phone into his deep coat pocket and nodded resignedly at his companion. "Technology is not my forte. It's taking too long, but I know someone who can help." He turned and trotted down the steps into the station and they took a northbound Bakerloo train to Oxford Circus. Instead of heading for the nearest exit however, Sherlock made a beeline for a heavily tattooed busker in her mid-thirties. She stood in a corner, florescent yellow light and the heavy make-up and facial piercings making her look older than she probably was. She was playing electric violin, the sound from her small portable amp creating a surprisingly full and rich sound when combined with the unique acoustics of the underground walkways. Not that John was any kind of an expert when it came to classical music, but he'd picked up one or two things from hearing Sherlock play, and this woman was clearly talented.

Sherlock stood back, showing an uncharacteristic level of polite respect for the woman's performance before there was a break in the music and he stepped forward. The woman recognized him instantly but tried to hide it. She started to play again but no sooner had she raised her bow then Sherlock had presented her with Mycroft's phone. She rolled her eyes but lowered her bow and tucked it under her arm, taking the phone from Sherlock. She shook her head, arching her pierced eyebrow. A moment later she handed the phone back

Sherlock grunted a brief, "Thank you," the only words uttered in the whole exchange, and dropped a wad of notes into the violin case at her feet before glancing back at John and sweeping off down the tunnel.

They rode the escalator up and stepped out onto the junction at Oxford Street and stopped in the doorway of a huge high street fashion store. Sherlock fished the phone out of his pocket again and this time, when the screen lit up, he was able to see a selection of standard apps and files but sadly he didn't have time to peruse his brother's private business. He tapped the contacts icon and was unsurprised to see that his brother's most recent contact had been his PA. A passport style professional photograph of her appeared beside the times of each communication but Sherlock did not attempt to call her himself. The likelihood, he explained to John, was that she had discovered that her employer was missing and was attempting to find him, or that she'd discovered that his life was being threatened and was trying to warn him. Either way, having been seen with their only lead - who the network had identified as being linked to the case – did not bode well. John swallowed uncomfortably and hoped that for once the consulting detective might be wrong.

Sherlock found what he was looking for, the address of the PA. It was a docklands apartment in a high-rise complex, one of the fancier ones. They took a cab to Westferry and then crossed the water on a short metal footbridge to where the nicer apartment buildings were. Sherlock pulled out another sterling performance, this time as a resident who had mislaid his entry card and the security guard waved them in with barely a glance. They took the lift up to the twelfth floor and made their way down plush carpeted corridors until they found the correct number. Sherlock knocked lightly three times and adopted a plaintive and concerned expression in the hopes of appearing like an overly sociable and inanely friendly new neighbour for the benefit of anyone looking through the peep hole.

After a about a minute and still no answer, Sherlock dropped his act and pulled a short thin metal device from his pocket and a long length of copper wire which he folded over twice before straightening it out and then bending to feed it into the lock beneath the door knob.

John watched nervously, eyes darting to the stairwell at the end of the corridor in case someone should some past and get suspicious. His eyes snapped to the door again as Sherlock clicked the lock open and successfully swung the door wide. John peered into the apartment apprehensively but Sherlock stepped past him, confident that there was definitely nobody there.

They made their way silently down a cream hallway with minimal decoration, bar one ornate lamp on a stand by an old fashioned style rotary telephone.

"Don't touch anything John, the fewer people know we were here, the better."

"I'm not going to touch anything Sherlock." John was indignant, he wasn't stupid, even if he _was_ in comparison to the only genius he'd ever know.

"Well," Sherlock stepped gingerly over a white wool rug in the open plan kitchen and living room area, "There are some things you can touch." He stepped back just as John made the same stretch over the rug and was suddenly right there in John's personal space again.

The doctor was taken aback, he would never get used to this new side to Sherlock, especially as it seemed to come from absolutely nowhere. Sherlock snaked a hand around his waist and stroked the small of his back. John laughed nervously. He was frustrated that Sherlock's openness when acknowledging this new aspect of their partnership, was making John appear shy and meek. When John wanted to touch the other man or say something complimentary in that sort of a way, he knew the most likely response would be one of Sherlock's typically dismissive remarks. 'We're on a case John,' or, 'Is sex all you think about?' He was more than used to a woman shooting him down, but with Sherlock? The prospect of that happening with Sherlock was somehow worse. After all, they _were_ on a case and he really _should_ be thinking of something other than the way Sherlock had looked in the throes of orgasm.

The consulting detective smiled cockily at John's inner turmoil and leaned forward to press their lips together. John lifted his head to meet him, they might be on a case but if Sherlock wanted this then John wasn't going to pretend that he didn't want it too.

Their lips had barely touched though when Sherlock broke away. He sniffed the air cautiously making John think of a startled deer sensing danger and within moments he was back out in the hallway, smelling his way through the apartment in his usual blood hound like manner. John let out the horrified breath he'd been holding, relieved that the cause of the offending smell had not been himself as he'd first thought. He couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary so he shook himself back to reality and followed Sherlock out of the room.

The consulting detective was peering through each door that lead off the hallway. He flicked the light switches back off and closed them gently as he went.

"What's the matter Sherlock?" John asked, frowning. Sherlock turned towards the kitchen again and popped the lid of the kettle.

"Smell this," he held the open kettle out to John who sniffed gingerly at the edge while peering inside.

"It doesn't smell of anything, just plastic."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. He reached over to the toaster and tipped it sideways, knocking it noisily over onto the counter top.

"No crumbs," he mumbled. He walked around the kitchen worktops fingering various utensils and appliances here and there, eventually pausing at a tea towel. He felt it, sniffed it and then let it fall back against the hook where it hung neatly beside a striped apron and a hand towel. "Nobody lives here," the detective stated as a matter of fact.

"Of course they do," John rolled his eyes, "Mycroft's hardly going to keep false information on his employees is he? _Some_ people are naturally tidy. Just because the place is clean doesn't mean nobody lives here." He swept his gaze over the pristine kitchen looking for some indicator that he was right, but he saw nothing.

Sherlock folded his arms and waited for John to come to the correct conclusion. The doctor remained defiant.

"Alright so maybe she's a bit of a clean freak, she is a woman after all – girls are naturally cleaner. You'd have to be a bit anal to spend all that time with your brother."

Sherlock smirked but maintained his confident air. "John," he began calmly, "I'm well aware that women are far more your area of expertise than mine, but in your vast experience – have you known a woman to keep a home quite as clean as this?"

John considered this question carefully. No, it was true that no woman he'd ever known had lived up to the ridiculous stereotype, but they were still tidy in comparison to the way they kept Baker Street. It was still possible for this woman to be just a bit obsessed.

Sherlock saw the hesitation in his expression and sighed. "Come on," he took his flatmate by the arm and marched him through the corridor to the bedroom where everything was as it would appear in a hotel advertisement. Sherlock pulled back the corner of the bed spread and smoothed a hand over the crisp clean sheet.

"Not one hair, not one single skin cell," he nodded, determined that he was right.

"Clean sheets are not that unusual," John was starting to doubt himself though.

"Perhaps not, but the lamp beside the bed is not plugged in - not only that but there isn't a socket within reaching distance of its short cable. This flat has never been used and I can prove it." He took John firmly by the hand and brought him to the bathroom. The light came on to reveal a predictably gleaming suite with a spotless mirror and chrome fixtures. John was about to concede when he spotted the neatly placed toothpaste beside the sink. The tube had a very pronounced dent in the middle. He made a grab for it and held it up triumphantly.

"Here! Look, obviously she's been here to brush her teeth. Of course the kitchen is clean, she doesn't have time to cook! She's Mycroft's PA for pity's sake!"

Sherlock gave him a knowing smile and leaned down towards the plug hole. He inhaled sharply and then straightened. "Spearmint, but not just that, there's some kind of sodium hexametaphosphate, peroxide or citrate ingredient, so I'll say 'Whitening'?" John glanced down at the tube in his hand and nodded.

The consulting detective slid back the glass doors of the shower and picked up a half empty bottle of pale pink shimmery soap stuff and then knelt down to remove the drain cover with his fingertips. A long gloopy string of pink gunk came up sticking to the underside of the silver metal and filled their nostrils with the scent of pomegranate and elderflower.

Sherlock replaced the drain cover and sat back on his haunches.

"Whoever put the bathroom together did a better job than the idiot who did the kitchen. But they were clearly all amateurs." He opened the cupboard under the sink and pointed out that all the cleaning products still had their safety seals intact. He marched back to the kitchen and showed John that inside the counter cupboards there was not one packet that had been opened. He scrolled through Mycroft's phone again and stabbed a calloused finger at the screen.

"This information was updated just a few weeks ago. This is not a _home_. I should have known there would be a decoy address. She could have set it up herself but it's more likely that this is part of some kind of security protocol on Mycroft's part. As soon as we broke into the phone, _someone_ would have known the information was compromised, and if that someone knows we're on to them . . . then we really shouldn't have come here at all."

John's heart began to beat loudly in his ears. "Come on Sherlock, let's get a move on. There's nothing here, like you said, so let's just try somewhere else . . . before, God knows what happens."

Sherlock ignored him completely in favour of muttering quietly to himself. As John watched his flatmate drum his fingers anxiously over the kitchen counter top, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. A twinge fired down his bad leg but he grimaced and ignored it. They really didn't have time to pander to his limp, they needed another lead and fast. There must be something here to link to what had happened. There must be. He wandered over to the living area's floor to ceiling sliding glass windows that lead out onto a nicely sized balcony, and stared out at the view of the high rise office buildings and waterways of the London docklands. It was beautiful. When you spent all your time in a cramped messy flat with a mad genius you've got a ridiculous crush on, or in a clinical white general practitioner's office, or running round in sewers or back alleys with that same mad genius, it was easy to forget just how beautiful the city could be. In the distance he saw the busy lights of central London and wistfully noted that, had they been at the other side of the building, he could have seen the millennium dome. Sherlock was pacing the room, fists clenched, clearly frustrated by their lack of progress. He stopped stock still suddenly and held his breath – had he found something? John was right at his heel when the genius ran from the room and slammed open the door to the bedroom once again. At the windowsill he snatched up a small 6 x 4'' wooden framed photograph of the woman in whose supposed home they stood. She was not alone in the picture. Next to her, grinning from ear to ear was the face of non-other than the brunette with the backpack from Trafalgar Square. John gasped. So Sherlock had been right! Not that John had ever doubted him. Sherlock was muttering quietly like he sometimes did when he was so far into his own thoughts that he forgot where he was. His knuckles were white where he gripped the frame,

". . . only personal item in the whole flat, . . . deliberate decoy, . . . shouldn't be here. Deliberately left here? For us? She knew we were coming. . . .left us a message." Sherlock prized off the back of the frame and pulled the photograph free. There, on the back in neat feminine scrawl was the message.

**_-Give up. This is bigger than the both of you. Get out while you still can.-_**

John thought he heard a sound out in the corridor. He gripped Sherlock's arm and brought a finger to his lips. Sherlock snapped back to attention, and they listened intently. The front door clicked open. Sherlock grabbed John's hand, and froze.


	11. Chapter 11 - Free Will

**Chapter Eleven: Free Will**

The sound of the front door being quietly closed again sent a cold sweat prickling over John's skin, but Sherlock leapt into action. He reached out and shoved John down onto the floor where he rolled in close to the side of the bed. The detective dropped down and crouched next to him, peering over the side of their hiding place to see the hallway through the gap in the door. Footsteps could be heard slowly creeping down the corridor and Sherlock ducked down further as a black clad figure moved smoothly past the doorway. John felt the detective slide his body close to his, longer legs bent so as not to be spotted poking out from the end of the bed. The hairs on the back of John's neck tickled when the detective let out a quiet breath. His body was flush with John's back and his right arm rested over John's torso and then, as the footsteps began to return in their direction, Sherlock placed his index finger gently over John's lips to quietly request his silence.

John closed his eyes, lost in worlds of maddening danger fuelled desire. He was not a stranger to the concept of imminent threat being a turn on for some people, but he'd never actually experienced it himself until tonight, and this was just mad. Even in Afghanistan surrounded by danger on all sides, he'd never even had the inkling that a reaction like this could ever -

"_Shit_ -" he heard the consulting detective exhale when the door to the bedroom was gently pushed open and the figure stepped into the darkened room. A gun was cocked, the sound loud and reverberating in the mostly empty space. Two steps further into the room and the person stopped and spoke.

"Get up, slowly, with your hands behind your head."

Sherlock pressed his finger more insistently into John's pursed lips and then slowly got to his feet.

"Come round here." It was clearly a young man judging by his voice, but John had known plenty of younger men in the army and had learned quickly that being young did not mean that they were innocent or naïve. In fact, it just meant that they were more likely to be reckless or cruel. He'd been young himself - he knew this could end badly. He watched Sherlock's feet under the bed as he walked slowly across the room to meet this stranger. A thorough pat down ensued, and when the young man was satisfied that Sherlock held nothing dangerous, the consulting detective was told to kneel in the corner.

"Now, there were supposed to be two of you. I'm going to ask you this once, where is your friend?"

Without hesitation, Sherlock launched into another of his character changes. He sounded nervous, strung out and volatile. His voice shook. "He . . he went upstairs . . t . . to check the other flat . . ." Obviously he was trying to confuse and distract the young man, but it didn't seem to be working.

When the stranger spoke again John detected a slight eastern European lilt in his confident drawl. "Wrong answer . . . stand up Doctor Watson . . . slowly."

John closed his eyes, his hand moving silently to his back where his gun sat snug in the waistband of his jeans. Was this a bluff? Should he just lay still and hope that the man didn't actually know where he was at all? If only he could see Sherlock's face he would know what the other man wanted him to do. After a moment's silence however, the stranger began to walk around the side of the bed and Sherlock spoke,

"John. Do as he says. Move slowly."

John slid his body round and levered himself into a sitting position.

"Well, thank you Mr Holmes, you've got him trained well don't you?" The young man smirked.

John scowled. He knelt and raised his left hand to the back of his head but was too slow with his right and as Sherlock rolled his eyes, the man grabbed the gun out of the back of John's trousers. He checked it quickly, then pocketed it before he pulled the doctor to his feet and shoved him down to kneel next to Sherlock.

Kneeling like this with a man pointing a gun straight at his head, John completely lost the buzz he had felt mere moments before. The man was indeed young, tousled blond hair poked out from beneath an unbranded baseball cap. His trainers were filthy and his tired hard eyes were surrounded by dark circles. He was barely twenty but the grim line of his mouth and the lack of feeling in his cold eyes gave John the impression that he'd seen more than anyone of his few years should have. The man's hand was shaking but the one holding the gun was motionless, professional.

Sherlock was obviously taking all this in as well, but unsurprisingly he had picked up one or two extra details. "You weren't expecting us, but you know who we are. You don't want to do this. Stop now and we can get you out, make sure you're safe."

The man barely reacted other than to quickly scan the rest of the room. "What have you done with the girl? I was warned you might start getting in the way, but we thought the club not here, it doesn't matter, but it was her I come here for. Where is she?" He directed his question to Sherlock but immediately turned his attention to John.

The doctor swallowed thickly and glanced away.

"We don't know, we came here to find her too. What do you want with her?" Sherlock asked, dropping all pretence and genuinely seeking information.

"I'll ask the questions I think," the man wiped his palm on his jeans and looked around the room. He caught sight of the empty picture frame by the window and glanced about looking for the missing picture.

"Where is the photograph? You took it?"

Sherlock passed him the photo and gave John a warning look. The boy turned the picture over and read the message. He laughed and shook his head.

"She'll have to do better than that! We know who she is, we will find her!" He dropped the photo onto the floor and lifted the gun once more. "Now tell me, where is she?"

"We don't know," Sherlock stated. "We actually thought that . . .well that, the message was for us!" The detective ignored any potential embarrassment in order to allow for his insatiable curiosity. "_Is_ the message for you? I mean . . . Who _are_ you?" Any danger the situation had previously posed no longer seemed to concern the detective at all. John was still all too aware of the gun levelled at Sherlock's inquisitive stare.

"I said I will be asking the questions," the boy reiterated with a determined growl. He turned his attention to John and smirked nastily.

"What do you know Dr Watson? If he knows, then you know . . . that's what they said."

John almost laughed out loud, if only that were remotely true! It did sound good though, the idea that people really thought that he and Sherlock were on any kind of equal footing. He'd rather they thought that, than that he just blindly chased the other man all over London without the faintest clue what was going on. Instead of voicing any of this though, John grimaced and shook his head. "He's telling the truth, we don't know where she is."

The boy nodded resignedly, "You know nothing, you're useless -" he began but Sherlock interrupted, suddenly taking the situation seriously again.

"You're obviously a determined man, professional. You're someone who can get the job done. You're skilled, trained, you're competent, able. Your family must be proud of you, for everything you've been through for them, for everyone."

The man curled his shaking hand into a fist. "Stand up Mr Holmes. Move slowly towards the door. Doctor, you follow him. And you both shut up." His accent was stronger now, and John might have detected the tiniest waver in his voice.

Sherlock moved to the hallway and the man waved his gun indicating for them to make their way out towards the front door.

"You've got the look of a good man, someone who will do anything to protect the innocent. You know how to use your training, you've seen action and you know what most people don't. That everything you choose to do, every decision that you make, will change the world. Change it for one person, or change it for everyone, it's all up to you. You're the one with the gun. You're in control. You're the one making decisions. I don't doubt that you're not going to question shooting that gun. You might have orders, but pulling the trigger? That's still you. You're the one who will do that. Whatever happened before, it doesn't matter because in that moment, there's just you, you and the decision that you will make-"

The man's hand shot out and with unexpected precision and speed, he whacked Sherlock square across the face with the gun. The sound of cold metal striking delicate high cheek bone made John's stomach roll. Sherlock rocked back on his heels, arms still lose at his sides.

"Shut up," was all the man said and then he opened the door and ushered them out into the corridor. They made their way silently along the outer hallway, the gunman checking quickly over his shoulder every few feet and pointing his gun to get them to hurry up.

When they'd reached the large floor to ceiling window at the end of the corridor, John noted that he'd been right. He could see the dome from here. Its lights reflected in the river beneath it making it seem to glow. John was pulled after Sherlock into a cold concrete emergency stairwell and they started their ascent in sombre silence.

By the time they reached the building's top level, John had lost count of how many floors they'd passed. The top of the stairwell was clearly rarely used by anyone other than a cleaner. A bucket and mop were propped against the rail, and a wall of shelves at the other side of the small square concrete space were filled with clear plastic boxes of cloths and bottles. A Henry Hoover smiled blankly up at them from the corner. It was only when the boy grabbed a sheet of plastic and lay it on the floor, that John finally fully comprehended the weight of their situation. Had that quick furtive glance at the view of the dome in the distance really been the last time he would see outside? Despite the cold rock that had formed somewhere in his chest, John maintained his professional calm, but he felt wholly at a loss without his gun.

Their young abductor cleared his throat. "You shouldn't have got involved. I can't risk letting you go now. Kneel on the sheet and I will make this fast for you." His accent was stronger now. Could this be because he no longer felt they'd be around long enough to identify him, or because he was distracted? His breathing had become laboured but whether that was the result of their short climb or his frustration with Sherlock, John could not tell. Whatever Sherlock thought he could achieve by chattering to him the way he had - by god - he hoped it would work.

The man's hands were not so steady anymore. John swallowed thickly and followed Sherlock to kneel on the sheet spread over the dirty floor, his back to the rows of metal shelves.

Sherlock's voice wavered then and John's heart broke at the other man's heartfelt words and the realization that this might not be another act. "Will you do something for me? Please?"

The young man considered Sherlock icily as he continued to check his gun and arrange the sheet with the toe of his trainer. "You'd have to ask me first. I'm not a psychic."

Sherlock let out a nervous laugh and he shuffled forward a little. "I know you know who I am, and why we are here. You're not stupid, you know what my brother is and you obviously know more than I do, because you know why . . why his life is in danger . . ." His voice wavered and the gunman regarded him, his expression entirely emotionless. Sherlock continued shakily, "I know that if he were dead already, there would be no need for you to come after us. So he's still alive wherever he is, and I wanted to ask you, man to man, I want to make sure that when . . . when you do find him, that you make it quick, and if it's not too much trouble . . . that you tell him that I said I was sorry."

John forgot that he was supposed to keep his fingers locked together at the back of his head and brought his hand down to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder. Fortunately the gunman either didn't notice or had also forgotten his words from earlier. His expression was faltering. John could see panic occasionally flicker in his wide blue eyes. This could either mean that the young man could be talked round – or it could mean that he would take out his frustration, ending them both instantly. He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder tighter hoping that the detective could also see the hesitation and uncertainty now plainly written on the gunman's face. Sherlock didn't miss a beat.

"I would very much appreciate it. I'm sure you know that this isn't the first time someone's held a gun to me. I've been in a few sticky spots . . . but I can tell you're a responsible man and knowing you'd do that for me would make accepting that you're going to go through with this a lot easier. I'm sure you understand." The consulting detective let his head drop, resigning himself to the gunman's threat and accepting death. He kept his head low, as though resting on a chopping block awaiting the killing blow – but it never came.

When John glanced up at the young man's face, he might as well have been seeing a completely different person. He no longer looked like a man, he looked like a boy, a tired, pale boy. His jaw had lost its determined line and he looked lost.

John watched horrified as the boy turned his gaze from Sherlock to the doctor himself and the look he gave was a questioning one. He was seeking, what . . . permission? The boy had clearly lost his nerve, his gun hand had begun to shake as he glanced down at the weapon as though he'd never held one before. He stared sorrowfully around the small concrete space before raising his hand shakily and pointing the weapon back at Sherlock's bowed head. John held his breath, their lives hung so desperately to these last few seconds.

The doctor stared aghast at the boy's frightened features and began to feel terribly sad that this terrified child would be the last thing he would see after the death of his best friend. The boy closed his eyes, actually shut them tight. Christ if he'd had any military training at all it had to have been brief and shoddily lax.

John felt the muscles in his thighs tense sharply and readied himself to get very much in the way of the bullet; he could accept that they were both going to die, but not that Sherlock would go first. He would not watch that happen. But to John's initial relief and then further horror, instead of shakily squeezing the trigger as the doctor had fully expected - the boy slowly bent his elbow and brought the gun round to point directly at himself. He tilted his chin upward and held the weapon pressed firmly into the fleshy soft part of his throat.

"No!" John blurted out, not thinking about how desperately he did not want to see something that minutes earlier he would have been thankful for.

Sherlock was on his feet and making a start toward the now openly sobbing figure shuffling onto the other plastic sheet. The detective stopped stock still, arms held up placatingly when the boy – now kneeling down - pressed the gun in more firmly and pointed for Sherlock to halt his approach.

When he spoke, his accent made him almost undecipherable under the harsh sobs which wracked his whole body, he then wheezed out a sorrowful "D..don't tell anyone."

Sherlock was instantly in control. His meek and accepting persona was completely gone and in its place, a version of the detective that John was elated to see returned. Every ounce of his piercing focus was levelled on the shaking boy.

"Be careful," he said in a low voice, "It is not your fault."

The kid stared up at him accusingly. "It is not m..my fault? You don't know what is my fault! I failed, I could not do it. I'm dead now."

"No," Sherlock replied, still keeping a careful distance. "Do you think you were responsible for deciding not to pull that trigger?"

The boy looked understandably confused, "Yes, I decided but . . . you told me things and I changed my mind and I couldn't do it, it is my fault."

"Stop . . . just listen to me. You are no more responsible for this than you would have been if you had killed both of us." The boy looked to John this time, his perplexed and tear stained face searching wildly for some sense in the other man's words. John couldn't help him, he had just as little clue what Sherlock was on about.

Wait though, could the detective be talking about hypnotism? It was something he'd always been sceptical of, even when that guy on TV had supposedly proved that you could train someone to shoot a celebrity without even knowing . . . he'd not quite bought it. It was true though that some people still kept to the theory that the person who assassinated Bobby Kennedy had been hypnotized. Was that what they had witnessed here? Sherlock glanced down at John obviously pre-empting his initial assumption, and killing it with a raised eyebrow and a slight shake of his head.

Sherlock continued, "Do you believe that you are responsible for the influences and life experiences you have lived through so far?"

"N . . no, not all of them . . . how could I be?"

"Precisely. Do you agree that your personal development has been moulded and shaped as a result of those life experiences, the people you've known, the books you have read?"

"What? Yes . . I suppose. Yes."

"Then you must also agree that you are not responsible for creating the person you are today and therefore that you cannot be responsible for the decisions you make."

"No . . wait, . . ."

"You are no more responsible for the micro structure of your brain, its ability to learn and process information, than you are for your height . . . or your fingerprints . . . or your lung disease."

John started . . . how in the world had Sherlock seen that? As the boy stared up at the detective, completely distracted by the genius's overly familiar knowledge, John scanned his eye quickly over the kneeling form and attempted to use his friend's unusual methods to decipher the information for himself. Right enough, he was struggling to breath, his lips were tinged very slightly blue as he sobbed and struggled to force the air out of his lungs.

"WHAT? . . . How did you . . . Who are you?" The boy cried out, dropping the gun away from his throat but still holding it tight.

"Your tongue is pale. Your fingernails are blue. You're struggling to focus and can't manage a short climb without inducing head pains. Your inhaler is creating a rather obvious shaped bulge in your left inner jacket pocket. It's not just asthma though. You've clearly only recently tried an inhaler because you've not learned when you need to use it. Cigarette smoke being the common cause, you likely blamed the early signs on the physical effects of the smoke itself, leaving detection by medical professionals until it was too late, too late to reverse the damage, and too late for it to have been picked up before it was discovered upon your British Army recruitment physical. They wouldn't let you in, not when they got the results back and saw that your cough was not just the ratchety hacking of a commonplace smoker, but the symptoms of degenerative lung disease. Likely one that you were able to ignore for a long time, like -"

"Emphysema!" John broke in, noticing the boy's rounded fingertips, his puffed out chest.

"Indeed doctor," Sherlock began to pace back and forth. He was clearly no longer detecting a risk in the shaking finger clasping the trigger before him. He turned and gave John the proudest of smiles. John would have blushed were he not so peeved that he had not been the one to notice the symptoms, and much earlier. The boy stared with open incredulity between the two of them and then shook his head utterly bewildered and brought his inhaler out of his jacket pocket and shook it lightly before taking a puff.

"The cause of your emphysema is the most interesting point though. You clearly smoke, you have a lighter in your back pocket and likely a stash of cigarettes in the glove box of your car. The smoking will kill you, I've no doubt of that. But you are not a hardened and world weary purveyor of the tobacconist's wares. Your fingers don't twitch at the mention of a smoke, and you have no discolouration of the teeth or skin. As much as I would love to ignore the scientific evidence in my own case, I cannot rightly do so with regards to yours. As sure as I am that smoking will kill you long before your chosen profession will come back to bite you, I must mention that cigarettes are not the cause of your illness."

"It's genetic," John spoke with more confidence now. Sherlock's cool and calm attitude was rubbing off on him somewhat, though the gun now held at the young man's side still made him feel uneasy. "That's why it wasn't discovered until recently, the onset would have been incredibly slow. Alpha1 Antitrypsin deficiency, I'd wager, and you're likely well into stage two, having not helped yourself at all by smoking."

"Your inhaler is useless," Sherlock added. "A common asthmatic's inhaler will not help you in the slightest, and I'll bet that one isn't even your own. You would do well to try corticosteroids. Although they haven't tested them with your genetic emphysema yet, my own brief trials have shown mainly positive results. At least equally as effective as with standard emphysema in any case."

The boy stared up at him awe struck. " . . . Amazing," he breathed rhaspily.

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction before rounding on the boy once more. "Quite so, but I would be a fool to take credit for such a skill. Although I have worked hard to maintain my knowledge of basic medicine and an array of other subjects in order to be able to see things where others do not; I am sincerely convinced that I owe my talents to pure chance. I am as lucky to have been born with this brain, to have had my education and life experience, as you are unlucky to have been born with a hereditary respiratory condition, and the brain chemistry which would allow you to take up smoking in the full knowledge and denial of your ailment, and the life influences which have brought you here tonight to kill us."

The crumpled, wheezing and sobbing boy dropped his gun, and a fresh batch of tears began to flow. He fumbled for his inhaler as Sherlock kicked the gun to a safe distance and helped the kid to his feet. The boy swayed, dropping the inhaler and Sherlock held him steady as John scrambled up, grabbing the inhaler as he did so. He helped the young man take a long huff, for all the brief respite it would afford.

John retrieved his own weapon from the pocket of their young assassin as Sherlock, feet planted firmly to take most of the skinny boy's weight, began the slow journey back down the stairs the way they'd come. John ran a cold clammy hand through his hair and let out a steady breath, and then swiftly emptied the cartridge of the boy's weapon and pocketed the gun safely.

Sherlock spoke calmly to the boy as they descended and John was amazed at the openness and honesty with which their struggling companion replied. Sherlock's ability to manipulate people never ceased to astound John. How had be managed to convince the boy that he was blameless? It was just mind boggling. The doctor trudged down the stairs after them, occasionally helping Sherlock by taking the weight as they rounded corners. The boy was struggling to breath but he was still telling the consulting detective his whole life story, his hopes and dreams, how he had so wanted to join the army and make his father proud, how his brother had served in Russia and had taught him what he knew etc etc. John scowled, but not so he could be seen. Sometimes things didn't work out, but that didn't mean you could go around offing people without taking responsibility. They were almost at the ground floor when the boy stopped in his tracks.

"M . . my brother . ." he cried, turning horror stricken to face the two men. "He's watching the building . . . if . . . if he's sees you alive, he'll shoot all three of us." His sudden panic was exacerbating his attacks and he began to go limp again in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock remained calm, "You'll need to leave first, say here was no one here, that you searched the building – then get away as soon as you can. We'll slip out another way. Here, we'll get you to the main stairs and you can walk down the rest of the way yourself. Leave through the front door as you'd planned and it won't look suspicious."

The kid nodded but his face, slick with sweat and tears, didn't look at all convinced. "I . . I don't think . . . he'll probably, well . . ."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and urged them on. "Breathe," he said. "Keep moving and keep breathing and you will have saved our lives."

They re-entered the building's warm plush corridors at the first floor and stepped out of sight of the security guard at the lifts by the landing. Sherlock passed the boy a pristine white handkerchief to clean himself up as best he could and he complied without hesitation or question, like a well-trained puppy. John kept a half step back, trusting that Sherlock could manipulate the situation to their own ends, but doubting his own ability not to completely ruin it by saying something to upset the boy. He curled his fingers tight in his jacket pockets and loosened Sherlock's scarf a little as the heat was beginning to make him itch.

Sherlock gave the shaken but trusting boy his instructions – get out and don't tell them anything – and then indicated for John to head back to the fire escape and gave the boy a final push in the direction of the main entrance staircase. They waited at the heavy metal door, listening for the sounds of the security guard shuffling behind his desk or the front entrance opening. The only sound they heard however was a thud and a quiet tinkling of glass. John frowned. Then all hell seemed to break loose.


	12. Chapter 12 - The Diogenes Disaster

**Chapter Twelve: The Diogenese Disaster**

"We're here," Mycroft said, letting go of Greg's hand to gesture towards an impressive white building that Greg recognized immediately as The Diogenes Club. Mycroft's wound must be hurting him again, Greg thought, when instead of retaking his hand, the politician turned away and gripped his upper arm. Greg heard him wince.

"Come on," Greg took control, "We need to get you inside, you'll be safe here right?" Greg had been called out to the prestigious gentleman's club once in his career. It was when he'd first started out in the force. He'd been so eager and ambitious, only when he'd arrived, he'd been cut off by an unmarked car and told in no uncertain terms that his services would not be required and that he was to return to his station and not to bother with the paperwork. '_Just leave it,' _his superior had told him when he'd made inquiries. Greg had learned the hard way that there were certain things that a police officer was expected to ignore for the good of queen and country and he had learned the lesson well. He had ignored his natural curiosity and instinct in order to progress and become a Detective Inspector. Now though, his curiosity was ignited once again, and he stared up at the 'Gentleman's Club' with an intoxicating apprehension as they began to crunch over the gravel driveway.

Mycroft's face was pinched and drawn and he was dragging his heels, slowing them down until they had stopped. Greg placed his hand instinctively on the other man's waist as the pain of Mycroft's injury made itself known once more.

"What is it?" Greg asked, concern etched in his features.

"It's . . . nothing, it's just . . . quiet," the politician took a few tentative steps towards the darkened building but he was still glancing around in discernment and his white knuckles were gripping his umbrella for dear life.

"You're supposed to be quiet in these places, aren't you?" Greg asked, frowning at Mycroft's reaction. He'd thought that if he could just get the politician here then he would know what to do, but to look at Mycroft now, you'd think he'd never been here before in his life, that he was lost.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and fixed the D.I. with an irritated stare. "There's nobody here," he pointed to the empty car park, "there's always _someone_ here, even at this time of night there should be someone here . . ." They both looked up at the now much more ominous looking entrance with its black iron railing. The lobby lamp shone on the front door but no light could be seen coming from inside. "Something's not -"

The politician was cut off by a sudden eruption of bright light. Greg saw Mycroft's face lit up orange by the searing heat pouring from the blown out windows and then he felt himself thrown backwards. Both of them sprawled on the gravel as glass and burning debris crashed to the ground around them. Greg heard the explosion but it seemed awfully far away, and the rushing and roaring in his ears sounded more like the sea crashing against a rocky shore than the angry flames he could see, curling and eating up the sky. His heart was beating at a ridiculous pace but he felt quite calm and it was only when his view was blocked by the face of Mycroft Holmes that he ascertained where he was and slowly, the gravity of what had happened began to sink in. Mycroft was shouting at him, staring down at him and yelling right in his face but he could barely make out what the other man was saying.

Another explosion burst through the air and Greg felt Mycroft's body over him and smiled up at him only to see the other man's face contort in pain. His eyes squeezed shut and his lips pulled back revealing gritted teeth. It was then that reality came rushing back to punch Greg square in the gut, and pain pulsed at the back of his head. The heat around him seemed to invade all his senses but he found his strength, even as more burning wreckage strafed the gravel around them. He managed to drag himself and the politician backwards inch by inch away from the burning building. He hauled them both across the ground with eyes wide, taking in the destruction before him.

What the hell had happened? They reached a patch of grass by the gate and Greg rolled them so that Mycroft lay on his side in the recovery position and then began to run his hands over the Mycroft's body, checking for injuries. His fingers touched wet heat when he felt over Mycroft's back and came away red with blood. Greg scrambled round to get a better look and ripped off the red chequered disguise and the waistcoat Mycroft still wore underneath. He lifted the other man's now blood stained shirt and saw the new wound. It wasn't as bad has he'd feared. Miraculously there didn't seem to be any foreign bodies to contend with and the wound wasn't deep. Some falling piece of detritus must have caught him at an angle.

Mycroft rolled round and took hold of Greg's wrist. "We have to get out of here, it was meant for us," he panted, breath ragged.

Greg shook his head, no no no they were supposed to be coming here because it was _safe_! The sound or far away sirens permeated his still fuzzy auditory senses and he saw Mycroft getting slowly and shakily to his feet and offering his outstretched hand.

They made their way - holding each other up - across the remaining short distance to the gate through which they'd entered only moments before.

Just as they were about to step back out onto the street a large white van bumped up onto the curb and screeched to a halt. Greg was caught off guard and his first thought was that it was an ambulance. He leaned against the black railings at his back and thought – _Thank Fuck!_

Mycroft on the other hand had tensed and was trying to pull the D.I. behind him as he made to run out across the road. The van was not the cavalry, Greg foggily noted, as they both heard the van's doors open and close behind them.

Gregory Lestrade felt the first blow of what he would later be told was a metal pipe, connect sharply with the back of his head, and the boot that he also was not expecting, collide with his abdominal muscles. The air was mercilessly knocked out of him. He felt coarse material being pulled over his head and gathered roughly at his neck. He did not feel the second blow to the head (before he'd even had the clarity of thought to swing a punch) because it was that blow that knocked the detective inspector out completely.

When Greg came round, he let out a long and pained groan. That was a mistake. If his experience as a reasonably intelligent detective inspector had taught him anything, it was that if you were taken hostage or just 'taken' and were knocked out, the sensible thing to do would be to remain quiet. The longer your assailant believed you to be unconscious the better. There was no need to utilize violent intimidation if your captive was asleep. Now though, they knew he was awake, and knew not to continue their conversation in such ridiculously LOUD voices. In hindsight he could see that as he'd come around, it had been the noise that had caused him to groan aloud in protest before he'd even remembered where he was.

Shit, where was he? The rough material still covered his face, and his hands were bound awkwardly behind him. He was lying down on cold metal with his ankles tied together the same way as his wrists. He was in what he guessed was the back of the white van. The vehicle jerked and rumbled as the driver drove it onward. He could feel the heat and presence of someone's body behind him and rolled slightly to achieve further contact in the hopes of ascertaining whether or not it was Mycroft on the floor beside him and if so, whether he was conscious or not. The body at his back automatically pressed forwards.

Definitely Mycroft, and Greg could hear him hiss in pain as they hit a pot hole in the road and the whole van shuddered. Greg couldn't remember any of the conversation that he in his half-conscious state had found so loud and offensive, but the voices had definitely stopped now. Although his head was still resonating with the low thrum of the twin explosions - not to mention the blow to the head - he could still tell that other than the rumbling of the engine and the distant sound of other traffic, the van was in complete silence. He wanted desperately to talk, to make sure that Mycroft was alright, but the man at his back was pressing against him so determinedly that Greg felt that maybe he was trying to send the message that they should stay silent. He was vaguely aware that Mycroft's physical presence was not only tense with worry and adrenaline, but also that the hardness he felt at his lower back was caused by something else entirely. Surely Mycroft couldn't be thinking about that at a time like this! Mycroft seemed to shift that particular part of his body away but his upper half pressed closer and Greg was sure the other man was trying to whisper something but he couldn't quite make it out. When he felt Mycroft lean forward and rest his forehead just gently against the back of Greg's own head, Greg sprang forward twisting in pain and yelped out loud. Fuck, he must have been hit pretty hard. It stung badly.

Voices could be heard again, faintly this time, from the front of the van. They were too quiet to make out specific words but the tone was clear as day. They weren't happy. They were more than unhappy, they were downright angry. The van shuddered again, either the suspension was shot to hell or they were going far, far too fast. The van swerved wildly and Greg felt himself in a dizzying roll, sliding across the cold metal floor and Mycroft bumping into him when they straightened up again.

"_Fff . . ucking Hell! Slow th. .e fuck d . ddown!_" The angry shout came from the passenger side at the front.

"_You want to drive? Then drive!_" The van swerved without warning and there was a bump and a clatter at Greg's shoulder and he heard something heavy and plastic hit the van's floor. He felt his stolen denim jacket become wet and a sharp acrid stench engulfed him in his sack cloth enclosure. He jerked and shouted, and coughed and began to see spots.

"_Keep y . .your god damn h . h . hands on the wheel - you idiot!_"

Greg twisted away, trying to escape from whatever toxic substance had been spilled but it had already started to soak into the sack cloth covering his face.

"myc . . . ." he choked out before ratcheting in another short breath. "myc . . ." Mycroft was coughing now too and between his short and laboured breaths, Greg could hear him swear through his coughs.

"Hey!" Mycroft shouted, "Hey! We need some help!" He pressed closer into Greg and the D.I. felt the other man's elbow digging painfully into his side. He twisted round and flailed as best he could with his hands tied at his back and felt the sharp plastic of a cable tie cutting his flesh. If Greg hadn't been panicking before, he definitely was now. He fought harder against his bonds only to have the pungent assault invade him tenfold. Mycroft tried to wedge himself under the writhing detective, pushing Greg up and away from the liquid that still flowed from the upturned container. But holding him balanced by bracing his legs against the side of the van was not working. Greg's breathing had been reduced to pathetic shallow little gasps, he stopped struggling and passed out

Mycroft felt Greg go completely limp. "HEY!" Mycroft shouted out again and this time he heard the two men in the front acknowledge him with an aggravated, "ALRIGHT! We're here anyway!" and felt the van pull in to the side of the road.

He listened with a strange sense of relief as their captors slammed the cab's doors and continued arguing as they opened up the back of the van. Orange street-light flooded in and through his hood, Mycroft could make out the silhouettes of the two strange men as they stood staring at the state of the van's interior.

"Fuck! Ben did you actually leave the lid off the terps? . . . . You fucking twat! That was only opened today!"

"I . i'm sorry, I was only using it in the v . . .v . . . van, I thought th . . . th . . . those other guys must have pu . . . t the llllid on when they were loading her up agggain, they must just have ssshoved it t . . . o the back, it's not my ff . . . ault, I'm sorry."

Mycroft felt Greg's weight being lifted from his body and hauled away as the two men continued to bicker.

"It's just one thing after the other with you isn't it? First you tell me you're a bleeding artist and the next you can't even read what colour it says on the side of the tin. You're an absolute embarrassment you are! Your mother would be mortified if I told her all the trouble you've caused me. It's lucky for you I owed her a favour, that's the only reason I gave you that second chance and you don't even bloody appreciate it do you?" The other man was silent and only huffed slightly and tapped Mycroft's leg, indicating that he wanted him to exit the van too.

The politician shuffled towards the doors and managed to swing his bound legs down unaided. Rough hands unfastened the hood and he was suddenly and painfully able to see properly again. He winced at the stark brightness of the street-lights overhead. They were parked close to the side of an old brick building, in what could probably be classed as an alley since a much newer and taller building towered on the other side of the vehicle. Greg was slumped against the older thug, hood already removed. His eyes were open and he was breathing hard, like he'd been running, but he only occasionally let out a raspy cough. Hopefully there wouldn't be any lasting damage. The cable ties at their ankles were cut with an orange metal stanley knife and there they both stood waiting in the harsh industrial light.

When Greg's slightly glazed eyes found the politician, his face cracked into the dopiest smile Mycroft thought he had ever seen. It was like he'd forgotten that he had just been kidnapped and would probably be shot upon reaching whichever warehouse these two imbeciles had lined up, like he'd forgotten that they'd been on the run and that up until this mad mad evening, they'd practically hated the sight of each other. Greg was just totally and completely, genuinely happy to see him. Mycroft's chest felt inexplicably tight all of a sudden and he knew that it had nothing to do with the turpentine now dripping from the open doors and down onto the tarmac. It had been a very long time since anyone had looked at Mycroft Holmes that way. He grimaced. Typical, he thought, that the man should be off his face on paint thinner. He cursed under his breath and forced himself to look away. _Caring is not an advantage,_ he told himself and then had his attention turned from his inner turmoil by the arrival of a brash red sports car.

It pulled into the narrow, empty street where they stood and the engine was killed. Greg seemed to slowly be coming back to his senses, Mycroft noted, because he was no longer grinning inanely at him, but was also staring at the new arrival and frowning slightly.

Mycroft's heart was pounding. If these thugs had been hired to dispatch him in the most insulting, inconsequential and clichéd way possible, no doubt as a final '_fuck you'_ from whomever was behind all this, then they had been doing a pretty good job. This new addition was inconsistent however. Unless of course this car contained the person responsible, come to gloat and do the ubiquitous 'reveal all' speech.

Nobody exited the car though and all four men stared at it, confused in the glare of the headlights.

"Come on then, get moving." The older of the two thugs gave Greg a hard shove forward, but amazingly he didn't fall. The younger one, Ben, pushed Mycroft with the flat of his hand on the politician's back and they made their way towards the front of the building, a building that Mycroft recognized. He recognized it with such jolting surprise that they all stopped and stared. He let out a rasping and half-hearted gasp and took in the thick black lettering that adorned the dully lit sign above the front door.

Cohen and sons orthodontic practice

est. 1896


	13. Chapter 13 - Toast Or Shreddies

**Chapter Thirteen: Toast or Shreddies**

John stared down at the plush carpet beneath their feet, it was now littered with tiny shards of glass. He then followed the line of Sherlock's neatly fitted suit trousers up, up to where his leather clad fist rested against a button marked 'FIRE ALARM'. The sound was deafening and continuous. Doors flew open left and right as the building's inhabitants rushed to evacuate their potentially burning home.

Sherlock watched the people calmly as they filed past. Nobody saw the broken glass on the floor or questioned why the two strange men were not rushing to leave along with them. As soon as Sherlock saw what he was looking for, he grabbed John's arm and ushered him swiftly into a flat. This particular flat had been vacated mere seconds ago by an older couple who hadn't closed their door properly behind them in their haste to leave.

Sherlock didn't hear John's shouted questions over the deafening wail of the alarm. Either that or he chose to ignore them. He dragged John through to the bedroom where the doctor watched as Sherlock raced to pull on the old man's pyjamas, straight over his clothes. The classic blue and white stripes did look a little baggy on his slender frame but the clothes underneath helped to bulk him out a little. He stepped out of his shoes and into the gentleman's brown comfortable slippers, and wet his hair in the en suite to flatten it down before spreading a handful of sweet smelling talcum powder through it. It looked like a wet mess, but a speckled grey wet mess. His coat and scarf went back on then, over his pyjamas, but as he rounded the bed to face John, he'd adopted a stoop and a limp and was shuffling in the most uncanny impression of a decrepit old man that John had ever seen.

When old man Sherlock grabbed a long white frilled night dress from a laundry basket behind the bathroom door and tried to slip it over John's head, the doctor realized that Sherlock was dressing him up as his elderly wife. No! No way. Absolutely not. He raised his hands and took a step back in protest but Sherlock glared at him with such urgent force that John just grumbled and slipped his hands up into the sleeves. The alarm was still blaring too loud for John's protests to be heard anyway. Within seconds his head was wrapped in a towel and he was swathed in the old woman's lilac flowered dressing gown and had her reading glasses balanced on his nose too. His feet were forced into the poor woman's fluffy slippers and it was a good thing that they were open backed because there was no way John's feet could fit otherwise. They looked ridiculous and John could not believe he was going to be seen - and likely killed - wearing a stolen nightie. He didn't even like the possibility of surviving while wearing this outrageous get up. He would be far too embarrassed to return it, maybe Mrs Hudson would like it.

"Just keep facing downwards as though you have a bad back!" Sherlock yelled as he threw their shoes and few other removed items of clothing into a bag and made for the door.

Back out in the corridor the noise was even louder but they could see the fire escape at the far end, and people still trailing down from the top floors. They hobbled along in their best impressions of arthritics and to John's utter amazement, the detective's ludicrous plan worked. Sherlock could make himself seem so small when he wanted to. His spine was able to curl up and his knees bend to the point where a young man actually offered him a hand as he was taking such a long time fumbling his way down each short flight of steps. John kept close behind, shoulders hunched and his face buried as much as possible in the snug folds of the tightly wrapped purple material. Thank goodness nobody noticed the ankles of his jeans poking out from beneath his night dress or the fact that his hairy feet were comically enormous, spilling out the back of the fluffy slippers.

The cold air from outside rushed up to meet them as they reached the last few steps and they shuffled out to join the waiting congregation. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Everyone gathered across the road and Sherlock reached out and held the doctor's arm, his hand slipping down and linking their fingers together so it appeared as though they were literally holding each other up. The initial hush of the bewildered crowd soon descended into puzzled chatter and then as the emergency services finally arrived, there were raised voices and hands on hips as people began to ask,

'I didn't see any smoke, did you see smoke?' and, 'I thought I could smell something but then again that might just have been next door burning their toast _again_.'

Firemen were entering the building while others stood at the main entrance talking with the incompetent security guard. Radios crackled and blue lights flashed but Sherlock didn't say a word. John kept his eyes downcast as he'd been told but a sudden squeeze from the detective's hand told him to look up. Sherlock was nodding in the direction of an approaching ambulance. The paramedics disembarked and called out to the crowd for any injured parties to make themselves known. When they were answered by wide eyes and stony silence, the paramedics walked up to talk to the waiting fire crew, and Sherlock made his move. Still moving as slowly as possible, he lead John to the abandoned ambulance and surreptitiously tried the driver's door. It opened without a sound and he grinned.

"Get in," he murmured under his breath and threw the bag containing the remainder of their clothes into the cab.

"No Sherlock, we can't. We can't steal an ambulance!" John shook his head so emphatically that he had to rebalance his towel.

"Look, John, we don't have an option. It's this or be found out. As soon as the police show up they're going to start asking the crowd some questions and if we are recognized or if someone takes a second look and sees that you are not in fact an old lady then that Polish sniper," he pointed to where an inoffensive dark blue Mercedes was parked at the other side of the main entrance, "is going to ensure that we are not in any fit state to find my brother. If the boy's brother has worked out that something is wrong, then he'll be watching any vehicle that tries to leave, like a hawk – except that is – the ones he has seen arrive. Am I making myself clear? Now into the cab before someone sees us."

John did as he was told and shuffled across into the front passenger seat, but as soon as Sherlock had swung himself up and gently closed the door, his initial apprehension returned.

"If we drive away, the paramedics are going to cause a fuss, they're going to give chase and that sniper is going to know exactly who we are and come after us." It was a wonder they hadn't been spotted already, at least by one of the crowd who might have noticed they'd vanished from the congregation. So much for nosey neighbours.

"No, he won't," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, "because he can't drive." He rooted in his trouser pocket and pulled out a set of car keys with a Mercedes brand metal wheel key chain, and rattled them in John's direction.

"Oh," the doctor let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders, reluctantly allowing Sherlock to steal the god damned ambulance. "I don't suppose you have keys for this thing too though, do you?"

Sherlock shook his head, "It shouldn't be a problem. Keep a look out will you?"

John whipped off the old lady's reading glasses in frustration and stared at the scene playing out before them. How long would it take for the emergency services to determine that the building was entirely safe? He could hear Sherlock rattling about underneath the dashboard. The engine suddenly roared to life and to the doctor's utter amazement, nobody outside batted an eye. The paramedics had disappeared inside the building with the security guard and the crowd all had their eyes glued to the main entrance. Nobody had noticed them at all. Their assassin and his brother, if they were in fact the occupants of the blue Mercedes, were undoubtedly waiting for the police to clear out so they could retrieve their lost keys.

It didn't matter. Sherlock drove the massive vehicle slowly round the small car park and out onto the main road. He turned to grin triumphantly at John but the doctor didn't grin back. One of Sherlock's rapidly drying dark curls had sprung free and had sent up a tiny white cloud of dry talcum powder. He looked like a crazy person and John was under no delusions that he looked any better himself. Sherlock's bruise from being whacked in the face was developing rapidly and there was clear swelling across his cheek.

Out on the practically deserted early hours roads of the docklands, they picked up speed and John could see no sign that they were being followed. It wouldn't be long though, of that he was sure. God this was awful. How had Sherlock managed to convince him that this was a good idea? Christ, what if they heard on the radio that the ambulance was needed? What if someone was in trouble and because of Sherlock's hare-brained scheme there wouldn't be an ambulance there to help them? John was beginning to sweat. He couldn't do this. He couldn't live with himself if they were responsible for some innocent person dying. He balled his fists in his lap and turned to face the irresponsible prat at the wheel.

"Sherlock, I -"

"Alright," Sherlock handed the ambulance radio to John and nodded once.

"What? I wa-"

"I know. You're right. Call it in."

John stared at the radio in his hand and then back up at the detective. What should he say? _'Hello, we've stolen your ambulance, sorry about that, we promise to give it back'_?His mouth had gone dry and it was hard to swallow. "What should I say?" he asked Sherlock anxiously.

"Oh for heaven's sake, give it here," Sherlock took the radio from John's hand and pressed the button causing a surge of static to crackle through the speaker. John had half been expecting him to put on an accent or at least disguise his voice in some way, but Sherlock only let the pressure he held on the button lessen as he spoke, causing more jumbled static to sound in the air.

"This is unit 684," _static_ "Pintrose Tower was a false alarm" _static _"We're having trouble with the engine," _static_ "heading back to" _static _"going to need to sort the" _static static static _"back to base. Over."

After a brief pause, they heard the reply. "Copy that 684" _static_ "Over and out."

John couldn't quite believe it had been that easy, that the operator hadn't been suspicious. Relief flooded through him. At least they knew that the ambulance was out of action, even if they didn't know why. As soon as the paramedics came back out of the _not_ burning building, they would make their own calls of course, but until then at least he wouldn't be putting anyone's life in direct danger. Other than having actually stolen a fucking ambulance. Bloody hell. John wasn't sure if this actually made it any better or not.

"Better?" Sherlock asked, glancing at John and then turning his attention straight back to the road.

John let out a non-committal snort and shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose so," he conceded after a moment. "I'm getting out of this damned dress - before we're carted off to the cells," he stated, clambering in a most unladylike fashion into the back of the ambulance where he began to shed his lilac dressing gown. Sherlock remained silent in the front, only occasionally glancing back at the doctor when they rounded a corner and John lost his balance or bumped into the equipment.

"What do you think will happen to that boy if his brother works out that he lied?" John wrestled the white frills of the nightie over his head.

"I don't know," was Sherlock's curt reply, "but we can't do anything about it now, can't hold ourselves responsible."

"No," John scoffed, "We can't hold ourselves responsible for anything though can we? We're not responsible for who we are or what we do, wasn't it?" He let out a dry laugh, "I knew you were manipulative Sherlock, lord knows I knew that! But that was truly something else. Where the hell did all that come from?"

Sherlock just stared at him in the rear-view mirror as John struggled with his remaining clothes. "I didn't just pull it out of a hat, John," the detective stated smoothly. "Free will is not unquestionable."

"What?" John demanded incredulously, "I didn't think philosophy was really your thing Sherlock."

"And yet you're fully aware of my thorough interest in all things scientific? There's a very thin line between philosophy and science. Barely a line at all when you get into the realms of logic. You cannot have one without the other. A person cannot arbitrarily defy the machinations of the brain. You understand that cause and effect is a universal staple in all of scientific study and yet you buy into the blind assumption that for some unknown reason the human mind should be the only thing that is exempt from the rule."

John was silent for a brief moment, "But we can choose, Sherlock, we're aware of making choices. I make a million decisions every day. How can you imply that I am not responsible for them? I decide whether I want Shreddies or toast for breakfast," John huffed out a laugh again. He stuffed his stolen clothes into the now empty bag and sat down on the fixed stretcher to tie his shoelaces.

"You might be able to explain why you choose toast practically every morning for the simple reason that you're in the mood for toast, or that I have used all the milk, but science has shown on innumerable occasions that the things that effect the decisions we make are hardly ever conscious. You are more likely to accept a complementary biscuit from a host carrying a red clipboard at a medical convention than you are if the same host is carrying a yellow one. Ask you why you took the biscuit and you'll say that you were peckish or you happen to like chocolate digestives or that you didn't have time for breakfast but you won't be aware of the tiny unconscious influences that make our conscious selves being responsible for everything we do, a mere illusion. Or even remember what colour the clipboard was or that there was even a clipboard at all."

Sherlock smiled at him again, clearly enjoying watching the cogs turning in John's mind. This was insane, John thought. "Why do it then, why do anything? Why do you solve crimes if the criminals aren't responsible for committing them and if you aren't responsible for solving them?" He climbed back into the front seat and eyed the detective expectantly.

"Is that why you became a doctor John? Was it to actually save people? Or so that you could be responsible for saving people?"

"To _help_ people," John shot back indignantly.

"Very commendable Doctor," Sherlock smirked, "But I would wager that your need to help people stemmed from your natural discomfort at seeing suffering, your instinct to provide security and sustenance by making a good living and also your innate need to fulfil your social roles. It was also dependent on your upbringing, your education and your genetic ability to learn, all of which were completely out with your control. You were lucky to become a doctor, and that could just as easily have become unlucky, had the bullet hit you just an a few inches further to the right."

"That's just chance Sherlock! Are you telling me you learned all your deductive skills purely by chance? You believe it was just chance that put your brother's life in danger?"

"Believe, implies a degree of blind faith. I make my deductions based on logic, on cause and effect, John. And I don't limit that logic to the petri dish."

They rounded another corner and then found themselves facing a long stretch of empty road. Sherlock took the opportunity to slow down and gently shrug his arms out of his pyjama top. He brushed as much of the talcum powder out of his hair as he could and by slowing down to a mere crawl was able to slowly work his legs out of the bottoms. He reached back for the bag and managed to work his feet back into his shoes while still driving.

John took a moment to consider just how weird this night had become. Discussing philosophy with Sherlock while the detective wriggled out of his clothes at the same time as trying to steer a stolen ambulance sounded weird enough but well, perhaps John was just becoming immune to the strangeness of the other man and it summed up their night so far quite nicely.

"Here," Sherlock said, passing John his phone showing a GPS type map. "You can give me directions; we're going to the Diogenes Club."

John let go of his mild indignation at having his whole life's work well and truly rattled and decided he would think about it later. He accepted the phone and within a short moment, had figured out where they were and where they were heading.

Once Sherlock was finally finished straightening up his rumpled clothes again, he picked up speed and drove them across London, and with John's help, managed to avoid the worst of the traffic.

It took John almost twenty minutes to realize that Sherlock knew exactly where he was going with or without him 'helping' with directions. He contemplated giving a false turning just to test the arrogant bastard but they were on a case and didn't have time to fall out. Instead of mentioning it, John simply let Sherlock's phone lay in his lap and stared out of his window at the streets flashing by. Sherlock had turned on the siren, was ignoring red lights, and driving like a maniac, John could see why he'd tried to distract him with the phone. There were barely any other cars to avoid on the route they were taking, but despite Sherlock miraculously managing not to cause any accidents, it still wasn't too long before the inevitable happened.

Another siren, and then a moment later, the flashing blue lights of a police car came into sight. They weren't far away, just another few minutes and they would be there. Sherlock put his foot down.

John's heart beat wildly in his chest and he stared at the fast approaching vehicle in the rear view mirror.

Sherlock slammed on the breaks and managed to avoid a collision with a red Fiat just by the skin of his teeth. They swerved around it and the police car followed, closer now.

"When we get there, they're going to arrest us. They'll cuff me, but initially they'll only question you. I need you to wait for me to cause a distraction and then get inside the building by any means possible. That boy said he'd expected to find us at the club, so be careful, we don't know if we slowed them down enough. Go to Mycroft's office and look for anything that we can use."

"Sherlock, I wouldn't know a clue if it bit me! I'll cause a distraction and you go inside. I'll lie to them, keep them off your trail and slow them down." The detective was smiling at him, not a happy, smile, but a smile none the less. He reached out a hand and squeezed John's own just for a second. John continued to protest, "Any information I found would be useless without you-" John went to finish but Sherlock interrupted.

"-John, I - . . . ." Sherlock had slammed on the breaks and was staring straight ahead, aghast.

The air was grey, like fog but the smell was a dead giveaway. Smoke could be seen billowing in thick clouds from the next turning. Sherlock leaped from the ambulance, leaving John to reach for the handbrake and kill the engine. The doctor followed him, darting round the corner and facing a small crowd of onlookers and an officer keeping them back with a roll of 'police line' tape. Blue lights flashed from all directions and the air was thick.

"Sherlock!" John cried, staring across the gravel path and up at the gaping hole where the front entrance of the Diogenes Club had once been. The windows were nearly all blown out. Smoke was pouring from the blackened interior. Flames licked hungrily at the curtains of the only window that remained intact. John tore his eyes away and stared around him at the police, fire crew and horrified bystanders, but there was no sign of Sherlock.

He turned a full 360 degrees, peering through the smoky night air but there was no trace. The final window suddenly shattered, and the crowd gasped and the slowly approaching fire crew had to shield themselves from the raining shards of glass. Flames leaped out and the sound of the fire was like thunder as it raged from within.

John felt cold metal click around his wrists and both arms were pulled back sharply. He was pressed forcefully into the side of a nearby police van. An officer was barking out his rights and he registered the phrase 'auto-mobile theft' and 'reckless endangerment' and then after his pat down 'possession of illegal firearm' he groaned internally. It had only been a matter of time. The officer, when he was eventually pulled round to face him, seemed familiar but John couldn't place him. He'd come into contact with so many police officers in his time knowing Sherlock and he couldn't remember them all. This particular man however, definitely remembered John.

The officer did a double take when the blue lights illuminated the doctor's face and then he scowled.

"Well well well Dr Watson. He's finally done it this time hasn't he? He's landed you in it good and proper. I'd like to see him wrangle his way out of it this time. You'll go down for this, just wait."

John ignored him and continued to scan the crowd for the tall figure who would surely come to his rescue. Just as he caught sight of a pair of dark and gleaming eyes locked on him from a doorway at the other side of the road, peering out from behind an elegantly turned up collar, John remembered that this was all part of the plan and turned his gaze quickly back to the bitter victim of Sherlock's previous misdeeds, and nodded solemnly.

"He doesn't know I'm here," John lied smoothly.

As he was being forcefully escorted to a waiting cruiser, John didn't see his partner in crime turn and head in the opposite direction. He didn't see him stop briefly to duck under the police tape and acquire the necessary items from one of the attending fire engines. And he didn't see his expression of heartache and fear as he started toward the burning building.


End file.
